28: Cold as Ice
by Math Girl
Summary: After beating back a Mysteron invasion, Earth is forced to deal with a rapidly slowing and cooling core. Several restart missions are launched, and a meddling intelligence shifts things again.
1. 1: Source Code

End of hiatus! Happy as peaches and pie to be writing alternate universe Thunderbirds stories, again.

**Cold as Ice**

In the years that followed the Mysteron invasion, International Rescue got fairly well off the ground… more or less. _More_, because an exhausted and battle-scarred world was in desperate need of heroes. _Less_, because the glitches kept coming, and in some cases multiplied. It was no easy task to incorporate alien technology, living machines and five strong-willed sons into a seamless, productive whole. Not while simultaneously running a vast multinational corporation and starting a second family.

Jeff Tracy managed by delegating authority; letting Al Jenkins handle the daily ins and outs of Tracy Aerospace just as Scott (his dark-haired eldest son) managed IR's various missions. There had been several notable successes, including the Sea Base Delta rescue (away in the murky depths of the Mediterranean) and the defusing of a massive ion bomb on San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge (though Alan nearly lost an arm on that one). There were also a number of draws, if not outright disasters. Jeff didn't like to recall what had nearly happened in far off Alaska, because he'd come so terribly close to losing Virgil, Gordon and the whole wretched Discovery Adventure crew (still combing the world for shards of green energy).

That seemingly everyone on Earth had been watching... via internet feed, cell phone videos and hovering news choppers... only made matters worse. Near tragedy, played out in public, was that much harder to bear. They'd survived, though, and learned from the experience; that was the important thing. So much for International Rescue's early attempts to do good and avoid arrest. Here and now, there were challenges enough.

For his own safety, John Tracy had been placed in ultra high orbit, aboard a shielded space station parked at distant L5. In this position, the former astronaut was near enough to monitor events and offer advice, yet mostly out of harm's razor-sharp, pitiless way. Or so they all hoped. His computer interface implant and facility with living machines had made him a constant magnet for trouble; Jeff's second-born, most stubbornly brilliant son. Thankfully, the others were a good deal closer to home.

Scott had resigned his commision as an Air Force officer again, after distinguishing himself in battle with the treacherous Mysterons. His unfailing courage and resourcefulness made Jeff deeply proud. Then there was Virgil, the calm and big-hearted outdoorsman (never yet married, but definitely looking). Next came Gordon, the gallant sailor and athlete… and Alan; at twenty-one years old still in search of himself. They'd turned out rather well, despite having an extremely busy executive father. But Jeff didn't intend to leave things to chance and his elderly mother, any longer. He meant to learn from previous mistakes and do better with his sixth child, Richard (Lord Pemberton).

Still, intentions were one thing, reality another. Especially when the news began to emerge of trouble with Earth's dense nickel-iron core. It seemed monstrously unfair, having just beaten back a deadly invasion, to have the planet itself fade out on them, now; that its pulse, like an old, tired beast's, was slowing to a stop.

The predicted results of this slowdown were catastrophic beyond reckoning, making the permanent colonization of Mars and the Moon seem increasingly attractive. Violent storms and deadly radiation were prophesied, as were flooding and wide-scale famine. Lady Murasaki made frequent television and internet appearances, urging the people of Earth to stay calm and keep functioning.

In the meantime, there were some few dreamers and madmen who claimed that they could repair the problem, and one official government attempt to do so. Most of the dreamers eventually set aside foolishness and began saving up for a berth on the proposed colony flight to Mars (scheduled for launch whenever a joint Spectrum/ military mission retook the Red Planet… if that was even possible). Several madmen wound up in prison, having broken into the WorldGov general assembly to present their schemes. But a few of these plans were actually workable; involving the deepest mines and trenches known to man, a series of mighty lava plumes, four huge plasma generators and a lot of luck.

International Rescue's involvement (despite every good reason a wealthy family could have to stay away from such dicey proceedings) came about because two of those government repair missions went all at once terribly wrong. There would be four attempts, in all, with teams boring down through the crust in an abandoned diamond mine, the Marianas Trench, Africa's Grand Rift Valley and the sinuous Mid-Atlantic Ridge. All of these places plunged deep. All terminated at immense, deadly wellsprings of magma; hot enough to be ionized and to conduct great beams of plasma straight to Earth's cooling and settling core. That was the plan, anyhow. Nobody's fault it didn't work out precisely as outlined.

Jeff hadn't held out very good odds, and only with misgivings agreed to Lady Murasaki's private request for backup. He didn't like it, but the world president was a friend. He could not refuse her, though agreeing to rescue the restart teams, should they run into difficulties, was bound to lead to trouble. Still…

"Speed up work on the Mole, Brains," he ordered his chief engineer. "Double or triple her shielding. Whatever you can think of that she might run into, plowing through the crust, make her resistant to. Then I want you to contact everyone you know who's ever worked on a drilling machine or operated mining equipment. Get their ideas and worst nightmares, and use those, too."

"Y- Yes, Mr. Tracy," Dr. Hackenbacker agreed. They were standing together on the balcony of Jeff's home office, with the hissing, murmuring ocean before them and a brisk salt wind in their faces. "I'll, ah… I'll get r- right on it. NASA has m- mined the Moon and Mars q- quite extensively in the past, and may have, ah… have s- some ideas."

Jeff nodded absently, big hands clenched tight to the silver-bright balcony rail. Just at that moment everything he'd fought for and built, his corporation and family… the whole flawed, beautiful Earth… seemed incredibly precious to him. Squinting into late afternoon sunshine, watching the ceaseless twitching of that jewel-blue sea, he said,

"Brains… I want our sons and my granddaughter to have a chance to grow up. Here on Earth, not on Mars or the Moon, crowded into some last-ditch refugee hellhole."

A moist breeze fluttered at both men's figures; mussing Jeff's clothing and thick, iron-grey hair as well as the engineer's lank brown growth and loose lab coat. They scarcely felt it, being occupied with other thoughts and deeper concerns.

"M- Mr. Tracy," Brains assured him, "We've, ah… we've been th- through an awful lot together. W- We'll come through this, too. I, ah… I guarantee it."

Jeff tore his gaze away from the restless Pacific to look at Hackenbacker. Then Tracy senior, arguably the most powerful businessman in all the world, smiled a little. Rusty and tentative, maybe, but there it was.

"Call me Jeff," he said, extending a hand as though they'd just been introduced. "After all these years and inventions, Brains, you've more than earned the right."

Hackenbacker clasped the proffered hand and pumped it briefly, almost too shocked to speak. His eventual,

"Th- Thank you… Jeff."

…was more of a dry mouthed rasp than a statement, though it sufficed for the moment. Nice enough, but all of this was before that blind gambler, Fate, tossed her dice and rolled snake eyes.


	2. 2: Defragmentation

Thanks for your reviews, Ship's Cat, Eternal Density and Mitzy. I appreciate hearing from you!

**2: Defragmentation**

_Tracy Island-_

The boys were severely infected with a sense of urgency, thanks in large part to their father, and reporter-in-law (or wife, in Scott's case). People had predicted trouble with Earth's core for many years, but this time, laid out in merciless detail, their warnings were coming to pass.

The government's repair effort, codenamed "Pacemaker", would be four-pronged, in the hope that at least one mission might succeed. Cindy Taylor-Tracy covered all four, but she'd be embedded in the team burrowing downward from Africa's quake-prone Rift Valley. Naturally, Scott hadn't wanted her to go, having lost and regained his journalist wife only a few years earlier. They'd had a terrible row over the matter, only ceasing when she asked, pointedly, whether she was his wife, or his property. Bottom line, she got to go.

All four missions would employ a souped-up version of NASA's "Drill Monster", a specially shielded extreme-environment mining vehicle. That it was a Tracy Aerospace design made matters simpler, and kept John Tracy in frequent contact with Houston and Madrid. On the island, meanwhile, Brains and Virgil labored to improve the Drill Monster's mighty sibling, increasing the Mole's shielding and heat tolerance beyond anything previously achieved by human effort. Repulsive dark energy was the key, in part, at least.

In a nearby hangar, Gordon tinkered lightly with Thunderbird 4, mostly pretending, for form's sake. He had complete confidence in his bright yellow sub's ability to adapt itself, whatever the situation. Still… best to seem concerned, and all that.

What time he could steal (when not helping Virgil, or minding the desk) Gordon spent with TinTin. They were engaged, though she kept her ring hidden on a chain round her neck; awaiting only graduation from college to make matters permanent. Between them it was, and for quite some time stayed.

Their relationship wasn't so physical as it might have been, because TinTin decided that she wanted to wait, and Gordon wouldn't have pushed her for all the world and everything in it, draped in gold medals. Also… repeated contact had brought her mind very close to his; even at a physical distance, now, he knew how she was feeling. Did rather keep life interesting.

Just at present she was on the island, but classes were scheduled to resume in less than two weeks. So they spent what time they could together, and with Alan. Otherwise, the younger Tracy moped about a good deal, reading NASCAR updates and watching the auto races (particularly stock car). Very much, he wanted to drive professionally, arguing that Scott had been allowed to fly a fighter jet, John to take off for Mars, and Gordon to compete in two Olympics. Only Virgil had done nothing publicly noteworthy, and Alan was far too restless to follow _his_ calm, homebody example.

"Seriously, Dad!" he'd said, one morning. "You've _got_ to let me try. At least one season. I _know_ I can do this… and think of the free publicity! I'd cover my car in Tracy Aerospace stickers!"

But Alan's father glanced wearily up from the world news e-paper he'd been reading over breakfast, and shook his grey head.

"Son… all it would take is one violent crash, with the TA logo shriveling in the heat of a camera-grabbing fireball, and our stock would go straight into the basement. Bad enough we're so closely linked to the success of this core mission… And that's not even figuring the risk to yourself. I may have six sons, Alan, but not one of them is replaceable. Especially not with a major rescue situation in the offing. Listen, you want to drive, buy a nice Ferrari or Lamborghini and tour the Autobahn. Trust me, it's every bit as gripping an experience."

And then he tapped the circuit-woven e-page, shifting its data to the next big story. At this point, clearly, the interview was over, but Alan stayed stubbornly put. Like most of the Tracy boys (and Grandma) he could be extremely determined.

Sunlight streamed in at the open French doors that morning, along with a warm, playful breeze. Curtains billowed lazily. Golden light sparkled off crystal, silver, mahogany and fine china. Small Ricky was on the balcony outside of Jeff's suite, enjoying playtime with Janie, under the watchful eye of Alan's stepmother, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward… Tracy.

The children babbled excitedly over dancing leaf shadows and flitting tropical birds; closer than twins at nearly three-and-a-half years of age. Lord Pemberton spoke better than his niece did, but she was definitely the ringleader, masterminding most of the pair's toddling, bubbly mischief.

Ordinarily, Alan would have risked Lady P's delicately raised golden eyebrow to sit out there and play with the kiddles, but this time (dang it!) he meant to convince his father. Leaning across the master suite's dining table, he said,

"Dad, I'm not giving up here, okay? Look… everybody else's had a chance to do what he wants, and now it's…"

Jeff Tracy looked up once more from his scraped-clean plate and world news, scowling at blond, stubborn young Alan.

"Virgil hasn't gone haring off on any wild goose cha…" he began say, dark brows clashing like storm clouds over flinty dark eyes.

"Because he doesn't _want_ to, Dad!" Alan protested, getting to his feet with a sudden chair scrape and wild arm wave. "But if he did, you'd let him, just like _that!"_ Alan snapped his fingers to indicate speed, adding, "No questions asked… unless we're talking about me."

Then, calming down just a bit,

"I'm not a kid anymore, Dad, and all I'm asking for is a chance to test drive a dream job. I can handle the finances myself, for real. My trust fund's intact, and John's promised to loan me whatever else I need… as long as you give me the go ahead to, um… "Go round and round in little circles, risking my (use your imagination) neck". Point is, I can _do_ this, Dad. All I need is your permission."

Jeff set down his paper and rang for Kyrano, looking rigid rather than assured.

"This discussion is over, Alan," he snapped, getting to his feet like a grizzled and powerful bear. "I'll think about it, and get back to you in two days' time… _after_ I've had a chance to talk to your brother."

"But…!" Alan started to protest, following Jeff away from the table. Tracy senior slewed halfway around, his craggy face set like granite.

_"Or…_ I can say no, right here and now, Son. Your choice."

Right. Alan took a very deep breath and bit back a lot of seething, frustrated comments. Because once made up, Jeff Tracy's mind was almost impossible to change.

"Okay, Dad," said the man's very determined fifth son. "Two days, it is. That's when you'll announce your decision, and I'll make mine, about where to go and what to do."

Because he didn't intend to back down. With or without his father's blessing and corporate backing, Alan was determined to race.

* * *

_Thunderbird 5, in high orbit-_

But as for John, far above it all in an echoing space station, safety had come at the price of boredom and loneliness. He missed his wife, consulting now with a private space-tech firm, and he missed his young daughter. Linda he spoke with quite frequently; Junior, whenever naptimes and feeding schedules allowed. Certainly not as often as he would have liked. Not that John wasn't being kept busy.

Thunderbird 5's powerful scanners were able to peer through the Earth as an MRI penetrates flesh, and she was far enough removed to see an entire hemisphere at once; something no lower satellite could manage. One layer and section at a time, John had begun to assemble a 3-D internal map of his home world; charting major currents in the roiling, putty-like mantle, as well as pinging all the way through to the underside of Earth's crust. With every rotation of the planet below, he added to the picture.

There were upside-down mountain ranges there, and weird anti-continents impressed by the pressure of these negative scarps on the sluggish core beneath. Using Thunderbird 5's holographic equipment, he was able to simulate the planet's interior (less all that volcanic heat and crushing pressure). The data were endless, his imaged results spectacular. You could spend hours… days on end… navigating plumes of fierce magma, or staring up at a rocky, diamond-pocked "sky" with odd constellations of its own. Sometimes he quite forgot to sleep and eat, responding only when his cell phone chirped a message from NASA, home or his wife.

But there were other concerns. Thunderbird 5 was fairly roomy for a space station, featuring an almost house-sized living area and comm center, as well as the largest private telescope then off planet. It was also haunted, by something he'd tried very hard to block out and forget.

Brief, flickering images would appear on view screens and port holes at the edge of John's vision, only to vanish when he turned to confront them. Changes were made to codes and data sets which did not originate with the isolated young astronaut; their purpose unguessable, but probably bad. And, yeah… he should have said something, to Ike at least, if not Dad.

But he was too much of an expensive and dangerous liability already, John figured. The last thing his family needed him to do was whine for backup. Which was why…

A) John cut himself shaving with a dull razor, one evening.

And…

B) He responded the way he did when the polished steel mirror in his bathroom flashed: _-Installation complete. John Tracy authorization required._

9


	3. 3: Blindside

Thank you Mitzy, ED, Sam and Tikatu. I very much appreciate your reviews. =)

**3: Blindside**

_Thunderbird 5, in remote orbit; with the Earth a slow turning blue-white agate, below-_

Once, just for fun, he'd written something on his fogged bathroom mirror, back home in Kansas (Euler's equation it had been, the one relating zero, "i", "e" and Pi). And for quite some time thereafter, whenever he took a shower, filling his bathroom with billowing wet steam clouds, that equation would reappear on the glass like a mathematical ghost. Only, here and now, the message on his mirror hadn't been traced there through vapor by childish fingers. _This_ writing was a probability shifted authorization request, asking John's leave to turn the universe over and savagely gut it.

_-Installation complete. John Tracy authorization required.-_

…It flashed at him, not only there, but on any smooth surface he chanced to look at; the bulkheads, deck, overhead… anything. John was not a man with one past, unfortunately. There were many timelines, some of them downright tragic, all somehow caused by his powerful quantum creation, Five.

Like an overturned carton of tangled and multi-hued wool, these pasts were a nightmare to sort; best shut away in a closet somewhere and forgotten. Except that he _couldn't_, because she wouldn't let him. Suddenly nerveless, John slumped for support against the bulkhead behind him. He could feel the subtle hum and vibration of his new home communicating itself through plastic, metal and wiring to his bare back and towel-wrapped posterior.

The shaving cut stung, dripping blood along his partly-shaven chin, but the astronaut scarcely noticed. Too confused. Too wrapped up in thorny and knotted timelines. Because many pasts now funneled themselves into one slender blond man, along with a tidal-wave function of possible futures, erasing his life's recently re-settled boundaries.

John shut his blue eyes, but that only increased the contrary visions and made matters worse. He opened them again, to find that a fog of lavender pixels had begun to coalesce in midair, crowding the station's small bathroom. _Company_.

John straightened up, wishing that he'd more on than just a damp white towel. Not that it mattered. Five could scan him right down to the quarks and strings. Not even a lead-lined diving suit would have blurred her vision, much less a set of IR space coveralls. He'd have felt more dignified, is all.

A humanoid female took shape as he watched; pale violet, with gleaming gold eyes. Reaching for him, she allowed the illusory "fingers" of one hand to brush John's left shoulder. Words formed in his mind; each as soundlessly melodic as the perfect equation behind it.

_'John Tracy is Creator and First User. John Tracy is free of error. John Tracy will scan and debug Five prior to authorizing this entity's installation.'_

His pasts and multiple futures vanished, then, along with a rampaging headache. All of them quelled by her warm, sparking touch. See, the thing was, maybe he loved her… and maybe she _did_ look a little ragged, packed with accumulated loops, misfiled data and self-programming errors that Five couldn't repair from within. So, although John should have known better,

"Let me have a look," he said aloud, adding, "Show source code," just in case.

_'Revealing source code.'_

Her pixels obediently shifted, sliding and flipping, sinking deeper within or pushing outward in a pattern of swift, 4-D arrays. Forming, not strings of code, but incredible quantum landscapes of it, all built on his original blunt scaffolding. Not sure how long it took in real time… ten or twelve seconds, possibly… but inside his mind and her program, the repair work stretched for a seeming eternity of Zen-like and utterly focused concentration. In there, it took several quiet forevers, during which time she slyly grafted herself to Thunderbird 5 and the current timeline (having caged authorization from two of her creator's busy internal subroutines).

During her scan and debugging, they interfaced on several levels. When it was over and all was put right, she said to him,

_'Energy required to accelerate rotation of planetary dynamo is available through partial drainage of alternate Earths. Suggested action requires further John Tracy authorization. Awaiting input.'_

"Wait… _further?" _He demanded. "What's that supposed to mean? When did I authorize you to do _anything_?"

During the work on her glitching object library, apparently. Seems she'd applied to John's pressure sensors and spinal cord for permission to infiltrate the space station. Naturally, being mere nerve bundles, they'd blindly accepted and acted on the data. That Five chose to interpret this as authorization was typical… and utterly maddening.

"No!" he snapped, fighting to keep control of his temper and soggy towel, both. "You can't just sneak your way into this reality, because the Mys… because…"

Because _what? _All at once, that tumbled box of frayed and tangled worldlines was back, all of them equally valid and as real as yesterday's micro-warmed lunch tray. Standing on the deck of his… of NASA's… the World Space Agency's… orbiting station, John Tracy was once again flooded; perfectly certain of nothing. Not the color of his towel, the pitch of the engines or condition of the planet below. Not even his own middle name. Where is tomorrow, if you haven't got last week? If _now_ is an island, battered and crumbling, surrounded by chaos.

"Stop it!" he ordered her, forcing his voice not to shake. The deck was still rumbling underfoot. His chin hurt where he'd cut it, and he could taste gritty mint toothpaste, feel his own fast-beating, jerky-loud heart. These were realities, along with the nebulous warper of sanity who hovered there before him. "Quit showing me things that haven't happened, Five! Stick to the present."

She pulsed a bit; retrieving data which swirled and flashed through her girl-mode form like lightning through a purple storm cloud.

_'The alternate realities have not been shown to John Tracy. John Tracy has become aware of their existence. A systems upgrade will permit continued function and enable parsing of multiple realities.'_

But,

"No," John insisted stubbornly, inching toward the hatch with his attention directed at Five, like a cornered alley cat. "I don't need an upgrade, Five, or outside interference, either. Go _away._ Put yourself in safe mode, or something, and leave me the *#// alone!"

Five did not respond with logic or protest. Instead, she took on a bit of solidity, drawing energy from the air and all-at-once straining engines to do so. The temperature dropped like a frozen brick, causing him to shiver. His sopping wet towel didn't help any, either. But then Five slid forward and upward to kiss him, delivering a deeply lingering caress that quite drove the cold from his body. Most of his reasoning capacity, too. Seeking authorization for something else, probably, but all of that ended when the wall-comm crackled to life, calling,

_"John? I'm getting some really weird environment and bio-readings here, Buddy. Are you okay up there? John…?"_

Ever have one of those days? When the towel you were just wearing is now a pair of white boxer shorts… when the thing you created, loved and cursed disappears on you… and you don't even recognize the voice calling your name on the wretched wall-comm? While God knows what's happened back home? Yeah. Welcome to Life 6.0.


	4. 4: The Killer App

Hi! Will edit after we return form Busch Gardens, promise! There, done with, more or less.

**4: The Killer App**

_"John?"_ the wall-comm voice probed again, growing discernibly more concerned. _Could_ have been Scott… about ten years and a lifetime of worry ago. _"You there? Talk to me, Buddy. The sensor's picking up crap, here."_

"Uh… yeah," managed John, through a tight and dry throat. "I'm here." (About all he could say at the moment.) "Hit me."

_"What? Why?"_ Said the voice (Scott's?) after a brief, startled pause. _"Say again, John?"_

Okay. Second attempt; with normalcy hanging on by its teeth and eyebrows, frantically looking below it for something safe to land on when it fell.

"I said everything's fine here. I'm okay. What's, um… what's on your mind?" (…And where, exactly, was Five?)

_"The environment readings, for one thing," _said his maybe-brother. _"The computer link recorded one heck of a temperature drop, a few minutes ago, along with a station-wide brown-out. What's it looking like from your end, Johnny?"_

Good question. None of his immediate answers would have won him anything but sedation and a straitjacket, however; so John considerably modified his response.

"Tough to say, at the moment. Let me, um… finish getting dressed, and I'll check, Scott." The name was a gamble, but one that paid off.

_"Take your time, Buddy. I'll keep an eye on things remotely while you get yourself together."_

"Sure."

A green coverall, soft-soled black boots and a sort of utility belt had been set out nearby, looking rather like the clothing designed by TinTin for IR use. The uniform was cut differently, though, and it bore silvery rank insignia, together with a name tape reading: _Tracy J. Lt._ Nevertheless, lacking anything better, John struggled hurriedly into someone else's clothing.

A few moments later he left the head, stepping into a passageway that hummed and resounded with busy machinery. It was wider than he remembered, with dimmer overhead lights… wasn't it? Something inside him twisted itself into a cold, sudden knot. John's memories were fading one layer at a time, replaced by whatever matched the current setting. Worried, he examined the bulkheads and pierced-metal decking, but not a message or command prompt appeared, anywhere.

Fine. Not a problem. Thunderbird 5's control center lay in the hub, or had done (he thought). He'd start looking for answers there, because his memory was growing less reliable by the second, and time was short.

"What else?" he said to Scott's altered voice, halfway down the passageway. "You told me one of the reasons you called was weird environment readings. What was the other?"

No special motive for asking, beside the need to maintain contact in this oddly different place.

_"To get some help, actually,"_ Scott replied, his voice a little tenser than it had been. _"There've been a lot more storms than usual, this year, and several unexplained earthquakes. Hackenbacker suggested that the Earth's core might be at fault. Sounds kind of far-fetched, I know… but if you could rewire the Freedom Station's scanners to check under the hood, we'd sure appreciate it."_

Begging the question: who's "we"? At another time, a less shifted John might have said "International Rescue", "NASA" or "WorldGov". Now… he wasn't sure. The station showed signs of other occupants (photos and personal effects lockers) but none very recent. Question was, why? Budget cuts? Suicidal depression? Crew rotation? At this point, there was no way to find out without asking straightforward questions. On the other hand…

"The core? You mean it's slowing here, too? Yeah… I think I might have heard about that, Scott." Sure sounded familiar, anyhow; though the longer he spent here, the harder it became to think outside his new setting.

The station's cramped comm center had a certain battered and lived-in look to it, with handholds and corners well-smoothed by frequent use (whenever the grav generators shorted out) and threadbare cushions (when Earth-normal conditions applied). John instinctively took a seat in a chair that turned out to fit him perfectly. While at the… that other place… nothing had been this broken in, he thought.

The instrument panel before him was a nightscape of blinking lights, most of them flaring in vivid _"what just happened?"_ yellow. A flurry of quick key strokes and his password (suddenly remembered) brought up the particulars: sudden temperature drop… unexplained engine power-down… mission status recorder glitch… and several voice messages from Houston, the latest marked _urgent._ Nothing unusual about that. Glancing at the cabin view screen, though, something did look distinctly different. Earth seemed much closer than it should have been, the astronaut thought. Hadn't he been elsewhere? Farther out, or something?

"Scott, I've got a couple of messages to answer. Mind if I research the question and get back to you?"

_"Nope. Do what you have to, Johnny. We'll keep looking on this end, too. You're a valuable resource, but it'll sure be nice to have you home."_

End of the week, John recalled all at once. Pete or Linda… whoever won the toss this month… would be coming up to relieve him by Saturday, if all went well and their launch window didn't slam shut.

"Yeah," he agreed, a bit dazedly. "I'm looking forward to it, myself, Scott."

His brother signed off the illicit comm tap a few seconds later, leaving John to open and answer his messages. Scott and Hackenbacker weren't the only ones who'd noticed the station's environment fluxions, it seemed.

_"What'd you do, open a window?"_ McCord demanded, after John finally called in. _"Cabin temperature dropped twenty degrees in less than five seconds! Only thing convinced us you hadn't been hulled was the pressure readings. That, and the constant busy signal. Next time, Tracy, pick up the d—n phone!"_

Pete was on station CapCom that night, usually the most boring job in all Houston.

"Sorry, Pete. There were, um… a number of comm and sensory glitches. Tracking the source down, right now."

_"Yeah,"_ the older astronaut snorted. _"Good luck with that, Tracy. In the meantime, keep in touch, understood? Stunts like that one aren't good for my blood pressure."_

"Yes, Sir. Will do." Like that of Scott, McCord's was a welcome and steadying voice. One he didn't mind talking to. "Who's coming up?" John asked him, to change the subject. "You or the doctor?"

The chair squeaked as he leaned over to the console beside him, tapping in a rapid bit of reprogramming with one flying hand.

_"Bennett."_ Pete replied, speaking volumes with the brevity and tone of his answer (but he and the doctor had never really gotten along, not even… back in some other place).

John smiled, miss-keyed a command, and then had to erase several lines of bad code to make up for the error. Turning the station's antiquated weapons-detection equipment into a deep-penetration scanner was difficult, especially with his mind on the coming relief mission and… something else, which he'd be sure to recall in a moment.

McCord, too, signed off eventually, leaving John to program in peace, between other jobs. Since Freedom Station's full time crew had been reduced to one (with double occupancy allowed for two days during crew rotation) John was kept very busy. Over the next few days he checked experiments, repaired equipment and answered numerous middle school emails.

When not engaged in PR, he also scanned the heavens for incoming asteroid chunks, helping ground crews to target and destroy them before they reached Earth or the Moon. They had plenty of motivation. Massive Loki hadn't been spotted until the eleventh hour, and an entire lunar city had been lost as a result. Bits of Loki and the newly resurfaced Moon were still out there, now, circling the Earth like buzzards.

It was the space station's repurposed mission to serve as an understaffed and poorly-financed early warning system. To this end, John scoped and tagged hordes of potential rocky assassins; squeezing time in for Scott's request by shaving minutes off his sleeping and meal periods. There was something else he'd been worried about, someone he'd wanted to contact, but the blond astronaut couldn't decide who or why. All he could think to do now was settle deeper into the harness and get to work.

A few days later, he had company. Dr. Bennett's robotically piloted mission launched from the Baikonur Cosmodrome on Friday night, at 10:51 PM. Clean takeoff and perfect ascent, despite a few high snow clouds. She separated from the launch vehicle ten minutes later, docking with the station at 12:02 AM.

They conversed back and forth the entire time, mixing jargon, small talk and buried tension. John watched his view screen and instruments very closely that morning, finally spotting her capsule's blinking lights and radar image at 11:52.

"Got you, Doctor," he announced, locking onto her signal. "Corridor's been swept and the porch light's on."

_"Thank you, Lieutenant," _her voice crackled like paper over the comm. _"I'm beginning my approach."_

Or the robot capsule was. And this was the most dangerous part of her mission, for the capsule's flight path was fixed, with only limited wave-off and return potential, should a chunk of streaking asteroid or lunar rock cut through her path. John had, indeed, swept the corridor, blasting away everything larger than a dime. But accidents happened, usually when you weren't paying attention. He kept one hand on the station's docking mechanism, the other on its main gun; talking through a head-set and hardly daring to blink until her van-sized capsule (dinged and carbon-scored) finally nudged up alongside, and got captured.

A hollow _boom_ and reverberation shook his orbiting home, followed by the staccato rattle of firing locks. Her vehicle was drawn close to the floodlit station by powerful robotic latches. Then the short corridor formed by her capsule's hatch collar and Freedom Station's "porch" pressurized itself, all in a hissing rush.

One… two… three seconds, and…

"Green across the board," he announced, deeply relieved.

_"Same here, Freedom. Nice work, Lieutenant." _Then, _"Houston, Baikonur, we've got a good lock. Repeat, docking completed."_

John's heart began to pound, and reflexively, he felt around in his uniform's chest pocket for the gold ring that should have been there, but wasn't. Then, confused and upset, he returned to safe, sane post-maneuver housekeeping.

Besides docking, the robot shuttle had got to be shut down, its systems placed on safe mode (but not so completely that a sudden emergency escape was rendered impossible). That took a good hour and a half, during which he, Linda, Saul out in Houston and Irina at Baikonur communicated constantly. Pete, he knew, would be home in his small apartment, watching the process on WSA's private network; beer in one hand and cell phone in the other. Once upon a time, Roger and Cho would have watched, too… but they'd been honeymooning in Lunar City when the asteroid struck. There hadn't even been any bodies. No one to rescue, nothing to collect.

His family and a few middle school classes made up the rest of the audience, probably, with maybe a bored WNN reporter tuning in occasionally, watching like a hawk for anything newsworthy. Didn't matter. The truly important aspect of all this was here, now… about to come through the short, locked-down umbilical connecting shuttle to station.

In a hurry, John placed the comm center on automatic, with remote control option to Houston, Baikonur and his own quietly monitoring family. Then he raced for the station's docking garage, intending to meet his… to greet Dr. Bennett.

Not that he was likely to miss her emergence. There were two sets of bulky hatches on both sides, plus survival suits to don and take off, for safety's sake. No fun, but necessary (and if you'd ever spent a seeming eternity wrestling your way into and out of a space suit, you'd think twice, too).

Linda Bennett came through almost two hours after docking. Surprisingly, Lieutenant Tracy had descended from the comm center to welcome her aboard. Not in WSA tee-shirt and shorts under his space suit, but full mission coveralls. Strange, unless the Apollo Middle School kids were watching, again. Just in case, she tailored her language and behavior, avoiding the normal "was it good for you, too?" silliness during their lengthy de-suiting procedure.

There was something else different, though. Tracy had always been a stand-out young man; bright and genetically blessed, with a father who'd been a WSA test pilot, back in the day. Now, tall and blond as a CGI film god (Chip Trace, say) he was also being extremely attentive. John actually handed her aboard the station, maintaining the contact far longer than strictly necessary.

"Welcome back," he said, squeezing her hand, and then releasing it. Looking around for the cameras, Linda winked at him.

"No problem, Lieutenant. It's always a pleasure to, er… that is…"

(Somehow, "relieve you" didn't seem like the right thing to say.)

He smiled at the deck, all at once kind of endearingly shy. Then he reached over to brush some of the wavy, helmet-pressed brown hair off her forehead, saying,

"All I get his promises."

His touch left a burning warmth that shot straight from her reddening face to the pit of Linda's stomach. Clearing her throat, she returned with an effort to business.

"Affirm I've been properly welcomed, Lieutenant. Now, how about we move to item 43 on the checklist? Status update. I heard that you had a little excitement, earlier."

He nodded, and then turned to walk her through the station, providing explanations and system updates as they went. Another long, boring procedure; confused and enlivened by frequent hand brushes and shoulder pats. At least he didn't try to grab her butt (as, on one memorable occasion, Pavlychenko had).

The situation reached critical mass just outside Freedom Station's comm center, where John, turning to pass sideways with her through an open hatch, suddenly kissed the (slightly) superior and (very) surprised officer.

Linda turned bright red, flung him aside, and then reamed the lieutenant out. Beginning with his canine ancestry, she then proceeded to loathsome personal habits, wrapping up with a scathing list of his probable physical inadequacies and suggested post-life itinerary. Took five minutes in all, delivered at top voice and intense emotion.

And then she ruined it all by seizing hold and kissing him back. His arms went around her, faster and harder than maybe she'd counted on, and Linda was all at once pressed tightly against him; pinned between an urgently interested young man and the bulkhead. She managed to break off the kiss, though, causing John to let go and step back.

"Is there something in the water, up here?" Linda grumped jokingly, thinking of Pavlychenko. John cocked his blond head to one side, saying thoughtfully,

"No. I can't say I've ever responded that way to Pete or Kyril."

Linda chuckled.

"Well… thank God. Not sure how Kyril would take it, Mister, but McCord would most likely keel-haul you… which is a pretty serious matter, on an orbiting space station."

"Serious, anywhere," John winced, thinking of barnacles and salt water on bare flesh. Then, "Um… sorry about that. I'm just… really glad that you're here, Doctor."

"Evidently," she agreed with a slight, rueful headshake. "But the "love boat" this isn't, so how about moving on to item 49.5.A?"

John frowned slightly, being just then very blond and puzzled.

"Fluid waste disposal?"

"Yeah. I need to visit the head, before I burst. Okay with you?"

He nodded seriously, standing both too close, and not close enough.

"It's all yours, Doctor. I even left the seat down."

Uh-huh. It was, Linda figured, going to be a very interesting two days.


	5. 5: Live Fire Exercise

**5: Live Fire Exercise**

_Freedom Station, orbiting a slow tilting Earth-_

What he did have were distractions; plenty of them. What he didn't have was time. It had been hard enough to work on Scott's Earth-Scan project when he'd been up there in space by himself. Now, with the doctor aboard, it was nearly impossible.

Not because Linda's presence exerted a warm, subtle tug. Or, not _only_ because of this constant assault on his nerves and hormones. More that she'd apparently been born with a checklist in one hand and a stack of regulations in the other. Procedure was Linda Bennett's first love, and John had to trick her with mild, invented anomalies just to squeeze in some non-standard programming time.

Other than that, they worked well together; seeming at times to predict each other's needs and dilemmas before the situations even arose. On the second morning, though, after they'd cleaned up the breakfast trays and contacted Houston (again), the doctor turned to him and snapped,

"Would you please _stop_ that?"

John blinked; one hand on the gravity-generator's calibration switch.

"Stop _what?_" he asked her, genuinely puzzled.

"Staring at me like I'm the center of the universe, or something!" she told him (looking somewhere between "cry" and "throw things").

"Oh."

For think-time, John went ahead and recalibrated the generator, which had lost a few revolutions per nano-second, leaving them at about three-quarters Earth normal.

"Well… you _are._ To me, anyhow."

Explaining himself had never been easy, anymore than understanding others, but he was willing to try. What the #3//, huh? As the generator powered up again, he crossed the comm center to stand before short, frowning Linda and said,

"I could be simplistic and state that I love you, Doctor… but it's more than that. You're her. You're the one, and stacked up against that fact, almost nothing else matters."

Linda's jaw dropped. How was she supposed to respond in the face of such calm, earnest certainty? Back home in Cross Creek, she was important to a couple of houseplants, a goldfish, and one old woman at a private nursing home. Now _this_?

Dozens of possible replies occurred to Linda, most of them sarcastic (her go-to response when uncomfortable). But before she could fire a word, the station's debris sensor beeped, followed by a long, hooting blast from the collision alarm. Emotion vanished away like a popped soap bubble, then, leaving nothing but work and survival.

* * *

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Virgil, monitoring the desk that afternoon, received Freedom Station's collision alert just after the two astronauts did. Frowning, the tall, dark-haired young man switched his view screen's image to a pirated satellite feed of the station exterior. What he saw was beautiful, but remote. Black-velvet space and gleaming metal; a slowly spinning wheel dusted with flashing lights and colored decals.

Virgil smiled, wondering how his younger brother could stand being trapped in that hamster cage for so many weeks at a time. Then he pulled the view back, nice and slow; one order of magnitude at a time. Nothing… nothing… and then,

"Holy crap!" Lunging to his feet with chair-tipping suddenness, Virgil mashed the alert button, shouting, _"Dad!_ Scott, Gordon, Alan…! Get over here!"

His family arrived in moments, Gordon Tracy still toweling off, Alan clutching a stock-car magazine, Scott and Dad empty handed and dead serious.

"What's going on, Son?" his grey-haired father inquired, crossing the room to join Virgil at the desk. Then, spotting the view screen, he went all at once perfectly still.

"Good Lord," the former test pilot whispered, "how did the sky-sats miss _that?"_

Because there, speeding like shrapnel toward Earth and the station, was a great cloud of rock, twisted steel girders and chunks of solidified, glassy slag. Red-haired Gordon scanned the hurtling mess from a nearby computer workstation. A few seconds and much grumbled cursing later, the swim-suited athlete turned away from his keyboard and said,

"Looks like most of the stuff is lunar impact ejecta, Dad, with about thirty percent asteroid material in the mix."

Jeff nodded.

"Trajectory?" he asked hoarsely; already knowing the probable answer.

Very quietly, Gordon said,

"Center of mass will skim John's position at an angle of thirty-two degrees, measured speed around 450 kilometers per hour. Number of strikes… um… strikes estimated at ten to fifteen thousand. ETA twenty minutes. After that, whatever's left will hit the atmosphere and burn up."

By this time, Hackenbacker had joined them, rushing out of his subterranean lab like an anxious, blinking mole. One look at the view screen told the be-spectacled genius all that he needed to know.

"Ah… M- Mr. Tracy," he began.

"_Jeff_," the older man corrected absently, as he reached for a phone and keyed in the WSA's hotline number. Brains started over.

"Jeff, th- there is, ah… is n- no other option at this point but, ah… but to evacuate the s- station. Its shielding won't, ah… won't stand up t- to that sort of barrage."

"Understood, Brains. Come up with a game plan to save my son and his crewmate, ASAP. I'm going to offer the WSA our full resources, whether they want them or not. In the meantime… Scott, Alan… Take Thunderbird 3 and get out there. We'll send you the plan just as soon as we have one. _Go!"_

"On it, Dad," Scott replied stoutly, casting one more glance at the view screen's grim death sentence. Then he and blond Alan raced through a secret doorway, making for Thunderbird 3's hidden launch silo. But Jeff didn't pause in his orders, next barking,

"Virgil, Thunderbird 2, with Gordon loaded up and ready in 4. If there's an emergency ocean splashdown, I want you on-site and ready to go. _Move!"_

"Yes, Sir," the two young men responded together, already halfway gone. Now, he turned his full attention to the phone, where his call had finally connected.

"Hello, Saul? International Rescue. I've got vehicles launching as we speak. Yes… yes… I know that. Absolutely. Your call, every step of the way. Only thing I need to know is what you need from us, Saul."

And so, as Dr. Hackenbacker clicked his way through a lightning-fast rescue plan, and Jeff Tracy both reassured and circumvented the World Space Agency, Thunderbirds 2 and 3 roared from their hangars; blasting forth on pillars of nuclear flame.

7


	6. 6: Emergency Evac

Up in a hurry, but will edit soon! Thanks for the reviews, Sam, ED and Mitzy! Edited at last. =)

**6: Emergency Evac**

_Tracy Island-_

Thunderbird 3 rose from her silo like a gleaming scarlet spear; gliding up through the roundhouse on full impellers before engaging her thorium-fueled nuclear engines. Under cover of Shadowbot, hidden from satellites and news cams alike, the sleek rocket roared away from the island and out into space.

Inside the bright, high-tech cockpit, Scott and Alan were extremely busy. Besides inputting basic course data and strengthening the Bird's dark energy shielding, there was local air traffic to watch out for. Scott did most of the flying, while Alan handled scanning and comm (didn't like it much, either… but that's what came of being young).

At first, the ride was tremendously noisy and jouncing. Then, as Thunderbird 3 cleared the atmosphere and leapt like a dolphin into space, most of the shaking subsided. Not all, though. There were two further burns and a mid-orbital boost required to bring them into line with Freedom Station. Worse, with all of the asteroid and Moon debris floating around out there, straight shots had to be mapped out and planned, well in advance. An emergency launch like this one required serious scrambling and a great deal of fuel. Good intel, too.

"Coming up on junk-raft seven," Alan informed his brother, having scanned the mass of rock and metallic slag before Scott could see it. Raft seven was the largest known debris swarm orbiting the Earth, and a source of frequent, prolonged meteor showers. Pretty from the ground, maybe, but a nerve-wracking hazard to space flight.

"Got a visual," Scott muttered intently, more to himself than to Alan. As a former fighter pilot, he was not yet accustomed to sharing the cockpit. "Adjusting course to avoid."

On Thunderbird 3's split view screen, the raft was a sparkling, swarming cloud of malevolent shards, catching the sun as it moved like a school of piranha. Ranging in size from flyspeck to city bus, the bits of rock and metal were at least a _known_ danger. It was the unseen chunks… the blindsiders… that were truly, unpredictably deadly.

"Keep your eyes open, Al," said Scott, unnecessarily. Alan was alert as a teen who'd washed down his breakfast of roasted coffee beans with a few cases of Red Bull and Jolt. Awake? He couldn't have napped, now, if you'd bashed his head with a number 10 sledge hammer.

"Uh-huh," he agreed, eyes flicking forward from view screen to scanner. Meanwhile, Scott burned the aft portside rocket for ten seconds. The rocket yawed sideways, causing that shimmering cloud of deadly hull-piercers to gradually slide off-screen.

For gravitational harmonic reasons, the debris that had settled in Earth orbit tended to clump at particular locations. Bottom line: having evaded Raft seven, they were free and clear until the return trip, when five or nine would be swinging around.

"Phew…" Scott sighed, releasing a mountain of tension. His dark blue interior coverall was soaked along the back with sweat. "That was fun."

"Sure," Alan snorted. "Like the Daytona 500 after a caution flag. One long party."

On their view screen's other half, at high magnification, they could see the slowly rotating WSA space station, gleaming like a brooch against velvet. No visual on the intruding debris cloud, though; not yet.

"Anything from Base, or the Station?" Scott asked his brother, as he calculated their next burn.

"Not so far," Alan admitted, glancing up from his instruments. "Want me to call them, Scott?"

The dark-haired, handsome pilot shook his head.

"No," he said. "Keep the channels clear. Dad'll make contact as soon as he's got something definite for us. In the meantime, job 1 is getting ourselves in position to act."

And that, with two more burns and a lot of luck, was precisely what he intended to do.

* * *

_Freedom Station, in the blaring, echoing comm center-_

Amid wailing klaxons and red warning lights, John checked the main scanner. What he saw there frosted the young astronaut over like a week in the meat locker.

"S#*t," he whispered, gazing at what had to be most of Lunar City; snapped girders, shattered dome, failed escape pods, and all. And the asteroid, of course. Chunks of the murder weapon were mixed in there, too, hurtling toward them at nearly 500 kilometers per hour. Moving swiftly, he killed the alarm, saying,

"We've got twenty minutes to blue screen. Doctor, you need to leave. Right the h#// now."

Linda had been peering at a secondary comm screen of her own. Now she straightened up and pivoted to face him.

"What do you mean, _I_ need to leave?" she snapped, brown eyes suddenly fierce. "What about you? You're planning to jump up and down really hard, to try shifting the station's orbit?"

A smile flickered across John's normally deadpan face, at that.

"If I thought it would work, h#// yes. There may be something else I can do, though it's unlikely to be effective… and that's why I want you out of here."

He was already arming the station's main gun and targeting systems. But Linda shook her head, no. Receiving confirmation from Houston, she said,

"Sorry, Lieutenant. That's a negative. If the station can't be saved, out next duty is to get out, alive. Lost equipment, people just grouse about. But a couple of dead astronauts could shut down the program. Now… respect the rank, put her on autopilot, and let's go."

Maybe she had other reasons for refusing to leave John Tracy behind, but all she'd own up to was bottom-line common sense. They took a few mementos before leaving; little stuff of Roger and Cho's that no one had ever got around to cleaning out, and a really bad photo of Pete. Then John and Linda left the comm center, heading for the docked capsule.

He'd transmitted his Earth-scan data and switched control of the station over, leaving Houston… via the Israeli relay center… to handle one end of the capsule release procedure. John and Linda would manage the rest, if all went according to plan.

The alarm kicked on again as they were speeding through the passage toward Freedom Station's docking garage. Worse still, small pings and rattles set up. Faintly, at first, as though a few small harbingers had arrived to scout their target.

John slowed his pace, still reluctant to leave the station defenseless. But the doctor seized his arm, urging,

"This way, Lieutenant. Keep moving. Nothing in here is worth your life. It's all memories, Sunshine, and those'll survive as long as you do."

Another ping, harder this time, was followed by a different, more worrisome alarm, and a sudden brisk wind. Saul Guthrie's voice, relayed through Tel Aviv, snapped,

_"Hull breech detected in the optical dome. Shutting blast hatches to sectors 3-A and B. Suggest you expedite, Folks."_

"We're flying through the checklist, Saul," Linda responded, while John collected a pair of survival suits that they didn't have time to put on. "We're in the suit-up room, now."

There were four hatches to open, using the shortcut emergency procedure that still cost them five precious minutes and their survival suits, which proved too bulky to carry. Linda found herself humming something… forgot the name of the song… that she'd always liked as a kid. Kept working, though; smooth as mock-up practice back at the swamp.

Two hatches open, and then shut fast and locked behind them. Then, on through the dangerously exposed umbilical. John took her hand at this point, and she let him. Something else hit the station, halfway through hatch number three.

The entire spacecraft seemed to tilt and shimmy, twisting the compressed umbilical in which they stood. Nothing to do then but ride it out, while John pressed her against the capsule's hatch like he could somehow shield her with his body. That's when the power failed.


	7. 7: Disaster Prone

**7: Disaster Prone**

_Tracy Island, in Thunderbird 2-_

The giant hangar resounded with noise and tightly-leashed power. Inside, bright floodlights caressed the green hull of a massive aircraft; bulky and awkward seeming on the ground, yet graceful in flight, like a storm-skimming albatross.

Presently the main doors began to rumble aside, letting in first a sliver of daylight, then a golden-bright flood of it. The runway outside was clear of debris and wildlife, its aisle of fake palm trees already flat to the ground.

Getting a "go" from the desk, Virgil Tracy throttled up just a bit. Thunderbird 2's engines changed pitch in response from tense growl to incipient roar, driving the titanic cargolifter out of her den; rolling her ponderously forward.

Virgil had set up three separate view screen channels. One displayed the craft's forward exterior, as a regular window would have done. Another showed him Freedom Station, spinning grandly in black, hollow space. But the third view showed him Thunderbird 4, securely fastened in her pod. A touch to his comm panel shifted the image to 4's cockpit, where Gordon Tracy sat busily inputting data.

"All set, Kiddo?" Virgil asked, causing his red-haired younger brother to look up, suddenly.

_"Yeah,"_ the former Olympian replied, nodding once. _"Good to go, Virgil. I'll be up there, as soon as we've launched."_

Virgil's gaze drifted to Thunderbird 4's remote status screen, as he continued to nudge his own 'Bird out of her echoing lair.

"You might want to increase shielding a little, top side," he suggested amiably. "Depending on how the situation develops, you could wind up getting hammered with falling space junk."

Gordon thought about it, grimaced unhappily, and then nodded again.

_"Makes sense,"_ he agreed, _"but my range and depth'll be limited. Have you got any specs on the space capsule's outer hatch configuration, by the way? If I download now, it'll save time later, just in case they splash down and the wretched thing sinks."_

"Get it to you in just a second, Gordon… hang on tight for launch, in the meantime."

Visible on screen, his younger brother sat well back in the sub's command seat, tugging a bit on his safety straps to be certain that all was well. Virgil had only once swerved off the runway, but the memory lingered.

_"Ready,"_ the younger man announced, seizing hold of his seat's armrests (carefully, as there were a number of important controls set therein).

Thunderbird 2 ground to a halt on the short, concrete runway, her enormous tyres crunching to a stop, her engines temporarily powering down. Then a carbon-scored blast shield flipped up behind her, and a set of huge clamps locked onto her wheel rims. The runway itself began to tilt, jacked upward on tall, hydraulic pylons. The effect was akin to a magnitude-3 earthquake, causing small pebbles to jump, and the cliffside hangar to shake.

Around Thunderbird 2's runway, the jungle rang with shrieks and alarm calls. Great flocks of panicked birds broke cover and wheeled away through the cloudless blue sky.

Virgil Tracy watched his own instruments, as well as a remotely transmitted image of Gordon's. Green across the board, and all clear. His exterior view shifted slowly from ground and sea to the endless, inviting-wide heavens. Virgil started humming, breaking off in mid-bar to communicate with Island Base, and with Scott.

When the ramp ceased rising and locked into place, when Virgil and Gordon were both shoved in their seats by the hard hand of gravity, the pilot gunned his engines, throttling halfway forward. They roared to volcanic, deep-throated life, bringing a smile to Virgil's face while increasing the volume and pitch of his humming.

Flaring exhaust blasted backward, striking the raised shield and spattering outward. Then the wheel-clamps snapped free, releasing Thunderbird 2 from her shackles. Now Virgil pushed the throttle all the way up, giving his giant 'Bird the power she needed to launch. As the cargolifter howled along the ramp and into the air, his father's voice came over the comm, saying,

_"God speed, boys. I've just received mission clearance from WorldGov and the World Space Agency. Stay alert, and fly safe."_

Virgil nodded distractedly, pushing his craft to higher speeds and rapid altitude. The sooner clear of normal traffic, the better, after all. Shadowbot would keep them off any radar and comm screens, but it wasn't much good against eyes.

"Where to, Dad?" he asked, once Tracy Island was no more than an emerald speck in the white-flecked Pacific, below.

_"Saul's team in plotting emergency return trajectories right now, Son. I'll let you know, just as soon as we've got something definite. In the meantime, ascend to 110,000 feet and maintain, circling at a radius of 500 miles. Understood?"_

"Yes, Sir. Got it," Virgil responded, inputting the new course data. Gordon joined him in the cockpit a few minutes later, getting into the copilot's seat the stupid way… by bracing one hand on an armrest, and leaping in sideways.

"One of these days, you're gonna fall and bust your butt," Virgil grumped, as his younger brother strapped in and put on a headset.

"Maybe," the athlete and aquanaut responded, smiling mischievously. "But not today. _Today…_ the crowd still goes wild."

Gordon waved in all four directions, as though he'd just been draped with another gold medal.

"Thank you… thank you very much. I love you all," he announced, drawing a snort from Virgil.

"Back to Earth, hero," said the pilot, adding, "we haven't pulled this off, yet. You can celebrate when John's sitting here with us."

"Sitting where… on my lap?" Gordon asked innocently, pretending to scan the cockpit for additional seats. "There are only two chairs in here, Virgil."

"In the copilot's seat," his older brother replied, growing exasperated. _"You'll _be down in the pod, replaying old victory footage and admiring yourself."

Gordon smiled.

"No," he scoffed. "I let others do that. Trick is to concentrate on the _next_ challenge, Virgil… like rescuing John and his crewmate. Swim the race in your head, first, and_ then_ win it. Dead simple, really."

"I hope you're right, Kiddo," Virgil answered, banking into a broad, shallow turn. "'Cause Mom couldn't take it, if we lost him."

* * *

_Space, in the short, twisting umbilical between Freedom Station and the robot shuttle-_

They were plunged into absolute, rattling darkness, briefly. Then a couple of battery-operated LEDs flickered to life, illuminating the hatch and still-shaking tunnel.

_"…got a connection, again,"_ came Saul Guthrie's tense voice, from the doctor's belt comm. _"Linda, John… you receiving this?"_

"Loud and clear, Saul," Linda managed, after a brief, nervous second. Together, she and John restarted the hatch-open sequence, which had been terminated by power loss. "We're almost in the capsule."

_"Copy you entering the robot shuttle, Linda. In the meantime, I've got WASP and IR standing by to assist, earth-side gun crews recalibrating for distance, and a return trajectory in the works."_

"You're the man, Saul," she replied, as the capsule's outer hatch first clicked, then swung inward. "We most likely won't need them, though. Everything's under control."

Stepping into the airlock behind her, John made a small, amused sound. At least, she thought it was amusement. He might have been choking on something.

Hatch four unlocked and opened like a dream, having been triggered already from distant Baikonur. Good ol' Irina…

Once inside, John went immediately to the pilot's seat and began power-up procedures, while Linda sealed hatch four and then triggered umbilical release. Too early; she was supposed to wait for confirmation from John that they had engine and battery power, but time was short and risks an inescapable part of life in space. The clamps retracted with a noise like a particularly ragged 21-gun salute. Artificial gravity ceased along with the docking connection, but she'd expected that.

"We're clear, Lieutenant," she advised him. "How's it look from your end?"

He'd been leaning close to the instrument panel, murmuring something, but now sat back and turned in seat to face her; hair drifting silvery-white in the robot shuttle's overhead lighting.

"We're good," he said. "Batteries are a little low, but they never got a chance to finish recharging."

"Oh, well. Guess we'll be skipping microwave pizza and video night, then," Linda quipped, strapping into the seat beside his. John frowned at her, realized that she'd meant the statement humorously, and then smiled a little. To Saul, he said,

"Houston, other than a low-battery light, we're green across the board. Awaiting push-back and startup clearance."

_"Go," _Saul replied, adding, _"We show a number of sizeable chunks on radar, down here, John, so I suggest you hit afterburner. We'll work out our fuel and power issues once you've dodged the immediate hazards."_

"Copy that, Saul. Backing free of the station, now."

A touch to the capsule's forward thrusters pushed the robot craft away from her larger sister, filling her cabin with vibration and sharp, puffing hisses. On the view screen, Freedom's docking hatch and bright decals grew rapidly smaller, drifting slightly sideways. John took manual control for awhile, nudging the robot shuttle back into line. Necessary, because he wanted to remain in the station's strike shadow for as long as possible. Pulling away from the hull, though, he had weirdly mixed feelings. Freedom had been home for so many weeks at a time, and it still felt wrong to just leave her, like this.

"Good luck," he said to the wheel-shaped space station, wishing about fifty things that just weren't possible. Then,

"Oh, my God," said Linda, once they'd slid far enough back to see what lay beyond the abandoned station. Not just a cloud, but a _wall_ of twisted, sparkling shrapnel hurtled toward them. And somehow, it looked a lot deadlier in real time, through the view ports of their tiny life boat.

John had experienced a desert sandstorm, once, while taking part in a Saharan rescue operation. On Mars, too, he'd seen such a towering cliff of racing, abrasive projectiles. On both occasions he'd had shelter, though; someplace safer to go. This time, their only hope lay in speed.


	8. 8: Anxiety

Edits to follow shortly. Softball practice and dinner, first.

**8: Anxiety**

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Jeff had very few nervous habits. One of these was cigar smoking. The other was tidying up. When his desk top and papers grew particularly organized, the situation had gone bad. And today his workspace looked as serene and well-kept as a Japanese rock garden. Not so the emotions of the man this house and island… this family… belonged to.

Jeff himself was a mess, inside; starting phone calls and then ending them, bustling about the office and preventing himself from interrupting Hackenbacker by sheer force of will. Restlessly getting up to shut the French doors and then opening them, again. That sort of thing.

Halfway back to his desk, the hall doors opened. No knock; just a sharp click and then smooth turning of the big brass handles. A pair of ornately carved teakwood doors swung apart with a slight, musical creaking sound, then, framing a beautiful, ponytailed blonde. She was tall and elegant, with obvious Nordic ancestry. Blue-eyed and lively still at 50-odd years, Lucinda Tracy had aged well. She was tired, though. It showed in the slight downward turn of her full rosy lips and slowed carriage.

"I put the baby down for his nap," she said, referring to their newly adopted son. "TinTin's watching him for me."

Jeff nodded. Moving purposefully, he crossed a field of clashing armies and fleeing lovers on the Oriental rug, reached his wife and took both her hands in his own. Kissing her forehead, he said,

"Lucy, I'm glad you're here, but there may not be time to explain every aspect of the rescue, so…"

"Sit down and stay quiet?" She finished, cocking a golden eyebrow. Jeff squeezed her hands, and then released them.

"I wasn't going to say that," he told her, moving slowly back to the command center. Lucy was his wife, and the boys' mother, but she was also very much her own person, and always had been.

A concert pianist who'd performed in concert halls around the world, she'd only settled onto the island with him after stumbling onto the secret of IR. For years, he'd kept the matter hidden from her, concealing the fact that her boys were being launched into danger nearly every day of their lives, while she played the d#n piano. Lucy wasn't certain yet whether she forgave him, or understood his dangerous obsession, but staying home and adopting a baby were part of her effort to _try._

"What is it, this time, Jeff?" she asked, having heard the ground-shaking launches, but not their details. "Another mudslide? Passenger bus gone halfway over the edge of a cliff?"

Lucy couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of her voice… And it didn't help any that _she_ was the reason for all this. _Her_ accident. _Her_ near demise, and Jeff's iron-willed attempt to master fate.

His response to the unhappy question surprised her. Usually the most straightforward of men, this time, her brown-eyed husband hesitated.

"Why don't you sit down, Lucy," he hedged. She did so, perching very still and erect at the edge of a leather couch. Always, she sat as though hushed crowds were watching, as though a grand piano gleamed in the spotlights before her.

"Jeffery," she said, in a high, clear voice, "I prefer not to be coddled or lied to. Now… what is it you don't want to tell me?"

Jeff ran a big hand through his steel-grey hair. He took a deep breath. Then, about the same time that Dr. Hackenbacker announced, "D- Done! I've, ah… I've g- got it, Jeff!"

…Her husband said,

"Lucy, Freedom Station is in the path of a very large, fast-moving debris cloud; asteroid and lunar ejecta, mostly. John and his crewmate are in the process of evacuating the station. I've been in touch with the WSA, and Brains is working on a plan to safely retrieve the robot capsule, should IR be needed. Scott and Alan are heading up there in Thunderbird 3, Virgil and Gordon circling the Pacific in 2." He paused for a gusty sigh and a brief, weary smile. "Now you know as much as I do. Any further questions?"

Lucy had gone very pale. Her slim hands gripped each other on her lap, as though for comfort. And, no wonder. She, John and Alan had been the ones on that ski-lift in Switzerland; the ones who'd nearly died in a horrible avalanche. It was a memory that, many years later, still tormented Lucy. Adrenaline gives one tremendous strength at times like those. It had enabled Lucinda Tracy (two months pregnant at the time) to stay atop the roaring snow and keep hold of her sons; John old enough to help, Alan just a terrified child. The baby… the little one… lost. Her heart began pounding. She cleared her throat.

"When do you expect they'll be back?" Lucy asked, trying very hard to brush the phantom past from her thoughts.

"Hard to say. But the better I'm able to concentrate, the faster things are likely to go."

She nodded, scarcely feeling it when Jeff leaned down to kiss her pale forehead, again.

"Lucy, I promise you," he said, his voice deep and gruff with emotion, "We'll do everything in our power to bring the boys home again. All of them."

Then her determined husband turned away to consult with his chief engineer, leaving Lucinda trapped all alone with the past.

* * *

_Space, aboard the robot shuttle's cramped passenger capsule-_

Their lifeboat was little more than a sedate, pre-programmed ferry; meant to get one from Earth to the station and back, again. Unfortunately, a ferry was not what they needed. So, while Doctor Bennett talked intently with Houston and Baikonur, John concentrated on reconfiguring their fleeing capsule, and on finding the shortest path out of danger. To h#// with fuel. Not being hulled was their most immediate concern. Explosive decompression _hurt_, for all short ten seconds of your remaining life. Not something he cared to experience… again?

He heard Linda rattling off figures and course bearings; caught Saul's transmitted voice, and the various sounds of their Russian-made capsule, but concentrated mostly on programming. They were accelerating away from the station at full burn, using Earth's gravity to add a significant down-hill boost. But the debris wall had begun to accelerate, too.

As escape routes went, straight down wasn't much of an option. He needed an angled path; one that sacrificed velocity in the "Y" direction to give them additional "X". Tricky calculation, though. Too much, and the main debris storm would overtake them. Too little, and they'd perish anyhow, unable to clear its raggedly speeding edge.

But there was a path… there had to be… that would take them safely between hell and high water. Once he'd wrested control of the helm from their stubborn computer, John focused on finding this safe, slanting path, all the while listening for contact from Island Base.

Then a second wave of hurtling projectiles reached Freedom Station, breaking his concentration. The end didn't take long, but was brutally painful to watch. A rock and steel avalanche overtook it, shredding the station with so many strikes that it spun and shuddered like a skiff in heavy seas. Then it exploded.

First, something sheared through the observation dome, blasting loose a shimmering hail of bright splinters. Next the ring was punctured; riddled in many places, venting gas and sparking silently. Strike after strike followed, as Freedom Station was engulfed by the monster and devoured, all in blank, frigid silence. Or, almost.

John had left a comm channel open to the station, for no good reason at all. Through it, he'd heard beeps and trills and occasional alarms. But then, as pale orange flame blossomed against black space and cascading debris, the comm channel filled with loud, hissing static.

John cut contact, saying nothing. Privately, he figured that fleeing the station had won them fifteen extra minutes… and that no path of the hundreds he'd calculated would get them safely around that onrushing wall. Judging from the silence at Houston, Saul's team had arrived at the same grim conclusion.

Then, because Linda was looking at him and time was short, John said,

"There _is_ a plan B, if you don't mind scrapping the manual, Doctor."


	9. 9: Resolve

Thanks for your reviews, Sam and Mitzy. Here's just a bit more...

**9: Resolve**

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Brains picked up a pencil and a badly-stained coffee mug, using them to illustrate his plan.

"Wh- What we'll do is, ah… is t- to have Thunderbird 3 line up with, ah… with the s- spacecraft at an angle of 45.7 degrees with the n- normal, on approximately th- the same Z-axis. Then…"

He brought the ceramic mug swooping down on the pencil, which wasn't moving very fast. Not fast enough, at all.

"Th- Thunderbird 3, will, ah…"

* * *

_A few minutes later, inside the cockpit of IR's rescue rocket-_

"…We'll accelerate, matching vertical speed with the capsule," Scott explained, using his hands to mime 3 overtaking the slow-moving lifeboat. "Our Heim Generator will be primed and ready to go, but _not_ engaged until we can read the fine print on the capsule's license plate, Al. Then…"

* * *

_Moments afterward, in the cabin of a small robot shuttle, fleeing a ravenous cloud of rock and debris-_

"…The International Rescue craft will lock on and take us in tow, hit full burn and get us the h3// out of Dodge." John described in a neutral voice, hands on the controls and eyes forward. "We can worry about correcting our trajectory once we're out of immediate danger," the pilot finished, glancing at Linda. "Dock to an orbital gun platform, or something. Stage two really isn't the biggest concern, right now."

Bennett looked at him curiously.

"They told _you_ all this?" she asked, briefly ignoring Saul's urgent comm hail. "Not Houston or Baikonur, but _you?"_

Put on the spot like that, John Tracy wasn't a very good liar. He stuck to the truth, generally, not just for moral reasons, but from sheer lack of creative talent. Unlike Alan or Gordon, say.

"Yeah… they, uh… They've kept in touch, on and off, because, um… the station is… _was_ a relatively hazardous posting. I guess you could say we've developed a sort of... relationship."

Linda's mouth flattened. Not (he suspected) a good sign.

"Relationship," she repeated carefully, as though the word tasted funny. "You and International Rescue?"

"Exactly. And since we've got just 7.35 minutes to impact, Doctor Bennett, I suggest that you save the third-degree for better circumstances." Nodding toward her communications panel, which was blinking and beeping like a battery-operated toy, he added, "Looks like Saul's in the mood to talk. Might be wise to see what's on his mind."

The exact same plan, as it turned out; received from IR and then relayed upward to Linda and John. But she still stared at the blond, stone-faced pilot as though he'd done something quick and tricky behind her back. Not only that, but probably illegal, too.

No matter, because with Guthrie's blessing, John could at last _officially_ open a comm line to Thunderbird 3. It felt strange, talking to Scott like he wasn't a sibling and not using his name (or Alan's either).

_"Understand you folks need a lift?"_ His brother asked, calmly.

"That's affirm, Thunderbird 3," John responded with equal poise; even smiling a little. "Yellow Cab doesn't cover this area, and we've got places to be."

Scott chuckled.

_"Of course, I'm expecting a hefty tip,"_ he joked, maneuvering 3, with Alan's help, to the dangerous crest of that swirling and tumbling rock cloud. _"And it's fifty-three cents a mile, too. Got the fare?"_

"H3//, never mind," John told him, slightly correcting his own course. "We'll get out and walk."

Uh-huh. Linda Bennett was not a stupid woman. Sitting there weightless, strapped to her seat like a roller-coaster passenger, the doctor listened in and was puzzled. Lieutenant Tracy and the IR pilot were bantering like old friends, or… he'd used the word _"relationship"_. Well, she supposed that John could be gay… although he didn't act like it. He did have brothers, though; that much she recalled from John's psych profile and work history. _Lots_ of rich, playboy brothers with seemingly nothing to do.

She didn't have time to pursue the notion, though; Baikonur had taken over for Houston, and Irina Porizkova was calling quite sternly for attention. Meanwhile, John steered them, putting their small lifeboat on the course sent up by Saul (and Brains). He kept an eye on the window's constantly roiling message of doom, as well as his instrument panel and radar screen. Earth wasn't in view at the moment, for he'd not wasted fuel or time turning their spacecraft around. Why bother? There were other things to focus on, like the busy and beeping radar scope.

On it, John could see the blinking bright image of Thunderbird 3; just an acid-green arrowhead labeled: _IR._ Behind that, all of those separate, hurtling radar hits had merged to form what looked like a solid and fast-moving cliff. One as dangerous to Scott and Alan as to the fleeing astronauts. _"Be careful,"_ he wanted to say. Although, of course, Scott would be.

Aboard Thunderbird 3, poised much higher up on Earth's gravity well, Scott Tracy double-checked his figures, nodded once, and then said,

"Hold on tight, Al. This is it. We may take a few strikes, ourselves, so be ready to put on your helmet and inflate the survival gear."

"Yeah, okay," the younger man agreed, keying up their suits' auto response mode. When the rockets cut in at three-quarters burn, it was like he'd been drop-kicked by an angry titan. All at once, Thunderbird 3 roared like a frickin' Japanese movie monster, and his seat tried to smash right through him.

Alan could hardly breathe, but he still saw that awful debris cloud, so vast and deep that it filled the entire view screen. So near that if he'd stuck a hand out the window, he could have brushed its jagged face like the glassy, thundering wall of a breaking wave. Had to hope that Scott and Brains knew what they were doing, though, 'cause _dang_ that thing was close!

In the office, meanwhile, Jeff Tracy embraced his lovely wife, watching as the wall-sized view screen replayed events in far-distant space. Once or twice, he kissed the top of Lucy's blonde head, willing her every ounce of his courage and confidence. Brains stood alongside them, nervously fiddling with a pencil; waiting to see what would happen, now that his careful plan was in the hands of others.

There was no one for _him_ to hug, of course. There never had been. And at times like this, that very much mattered. Brilliant ideas and gleaming-chrome science were cold comfort in the face of impending disaster. Cold as space, or Earth's core. Cold as ice. Alone in every way that counted, all Dwight Bremmerman could do was to stand there and watch, while somewhere, others took action.

The rest happened very swiftly. Thunderbird 3 surfed the face of that rampaging avalanche, cutting diagonally downward as the cloud rushed for the escaping capsule. Just ahead of the mighty wave front, taking several strikes, themselves, Scott and Alan locked onto John's tiny spacecraft and took it in tow. Then, as the astronauts within were smashed with sudden, blackout acceleration, Thunderbird 3 increased her speed even further, plunging rapidly down and sideways.

"Got 'em!" Alan had shouted aloud; his sky-blue eyes wide and intent. "Scott, we got a lock!"

"Good job, Al. Now, _brace!_ John, you hear that? Hang on, Buddy, I'm going to full power."

Inside the capsule, pilot and doctor had felt a sudden, deep vibration as their lifeboat and everything in it was seized by the Heim generator's mighty field. Small pings and rattles… the first tiny scrabblings of disaster… tapped at the hull of the spacecraft, just like they'd done to Freedom Station. Then vicious acceleration struck them, like bat meeting ball. They were bludgeoned unconscious, lungs compressed and vision narrowing to a blood-tinged tunnel before darkness claimed them utterly.

Far below them, in the rumbling cockpit of Thunderbird 2, Virgil Tracy flew, chewed spearmint gum and hummed to himself. Gordon watched the radar screen and satellite feeds, keeping his older brother posted. Then, after an instant of tense silence and scrambled capsule data, the screen flickered and cleared once more. Gordon leapt in his seat like a dolphin and gave a sudden, exultant fist pump.

"_Yes_! Way to go, Alan! They got 'em, Virgil. It's a good lock… in tow and headed this way, more or less…"

Then, the red-head leaned forward, frowning slightly.

"Hang on… telemetry indicates a possible hull breach. No, that's a _definite _hull breach. Small hole, location uncertain, but the capsule's venting atmosphere."

Virgil looked over, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun and sparkling ocean. In a tense, quiet voice, he said,

"They got hit? Or just strain from the quick pick-up?"

Gordon grunted and tapped a few keys. The golden sunshine streaming in through his viewport struck copper glints from his hair, as the athlete first scanned and then broadcast his data.

"Can't say for sure, Virgil. The capsule's computer is going nuts up there, and the crew is unconscious. I'm not getting very good intel."

"They've got space suits, though? Helmets on?" the big, brown-haired pilot asked him, unconsciously throttling up.

"Doesn't look like it," Gordon told his older brother, shaking his head. "Wasn't time enough, probably."

Virgil nodded grimly and swallowed his gum. Then, he contacted the rescue rocket, saying,

"Thunderbird 3, from Thunderbird 2. Scott, you need to reenter, right the h3// now. There's a leak. Get that capsule into the atmosphere and decelerate as smoothly as possible. Release them over the Pacific, and we'll handle the rest. You copy?"

_"Gotcha, Virge. Give me a second to get free of this debris cloud… sh-t, that thing's moving fast. Be right with you, Thunderbird 2."_


	10. 10: Shifting Fortunes

More still better edits are here. Thanks for your reviews, Sam, Tikatu and ED. Appreciate it.

**10: Shifting Fortunes**

_Thunderbird 3-_

Faced with a wall of rip-saw debris, Scott extended Thunderbird 3's force shield to cover the capsule, as well. This left him terribly vulnerable, but gave John and his crewmate a _chance,_ at least. As the first bits of juggernaut metal and stone began ringing and popping against their shielded spacecraft, he shouted,

"Alan, get your helmet on!"

Then the great wave engulfed them, scraping talons of stone, ice and steel across Thunderbird 3's flickering, overwhelmed shields. Only way out was down and across. All he had to do, as Alan jammed a helmet onto Scott's head and locked the neck ring… as his uniform inflated, making movement stiff and slow… was ignore it all and keep flying.

* * *

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Jeff stared at his giant wall-screen, willing the small, gleaming image of Thunderbird 3 to reappear. But the debris cloud rushed onward, consuming satellites and orbital gun platforms; blinding the Earth below. Bit by bit, source by source, they lost video feed, until the view screen held nothing but darkness and silence.

* * *

_Thunderbird 2, high above the restless Pacific Ocean-_

Gordon had input Scott's last known position, velocity and bearing. Virgil followed up, banking Thunderbird 2 on an intercept course and praying for the best. The massive green cargolifter roared like an active volcano, reaching speeds which nothing that size and shape should have been capable of.

Meanwhile, dozens of WASP and US Navy ships plowed white, flaring wakes in the darkening water below, rushing to offer assistance. Coast Guard rescue choppers lifted in clattering swarms from their ocean-side bases. …But none of that mattered in the slightest if Scott couldn't find his way through the avalanche of ragged and swirling debris.

* * *

_The World Space Agency's Mission Control Center, in Houston, Texas-_

Together with Pete McCord, a roomful of deeply concerned engineers and several reporters, Saul Guthrie watched the capsule telemetry screen. Because when all else failed… when the network of satellite cameras had been destroyed, one after another… Baikonur's robot shuttle continued to faithfully transmit her position. The men and women of Mission Control looked on, swiveling in their seats, as a small, blinking S-10 crossed the long flight board, arcing down toward mid-Pacific.

A tall, lanky man with pale hair and a bony, Midwestern face, Saul had both hands thrust deep in his pockets. Beside him, Pete was much less able to keep still. The short, balding redhead bounced on his toes, crossed and uncrossed his arms, went for coffee (even though he actually hated the stuff), and peered over hunched shoulders at dozens of work stations. Anything at all, to move around and take action.

Rachel Neer was on Capcom that evening, and her clear, slightly accented, voice called repeatedly,

"S-10, Houston. S-10, this is Mission Control. Do you copy…?"

There was extreme tension in the angle of her slim back and the set of her bent, dark-haired head. The entire large room fairly crackled with it.

"S-10, Houston…"

* * *

_Space, arrowing desperately for the relative safety of Earth's atmosphere-_

He might have done a neater bit of flying, but never a more important or tougher one. Scott had faced flak before, in shrieking, fuselage-chewing storms. He'd never had to deal with a hurtling mine field of the stuff, though. Not in space, with a hulled passenger shuttle in tow.

He flew with one hand and plowed the field with the other; firing 3's forward laser cannon at everything crossing their path. Tumbling rocks and cold-weakened metal shattered into further small bits, many of them striking the rocket. Grinding his teeth, Scott kept flying and diverted still more shield power to the captured robot shuttle. He and Alan had space suits, at least. That was something.

A few moments later, they seemed to win free; out of the silent avalanche, with a few shreds of ionized gas painting vivid auroras on Thunderbird 3. Scott took a deep, ragged breath. Almost a sob, really. Then the piece of metal which cracked Alan's helmet and almost killed his older brother came shooting through the hull like a mining laser. Too fast to see, and only _just_ missing Scott's head.

He'd turned for a second, sparing a glance at the staticky comm screen, and that was what saved the pilot's life. He'd wanted to contact John, is all; intending to check on his astronaut brother. But all at once there was a noise of sharp impact, then the rushing scream of escaping air. Alan yelled like he'd been burnt with a branding iron, and alarms went off all over the cockpit.

Somewhere deep inside him, panic was running hysterical laps, but Scott forced it back under and smashed down the lid. Smooth and easy, he flew Thunderbird 3 back into the atmosphere, as a glowing-bright meteor shower blossomed all around the fleeing rocket; long streaks and streamers of disintegrating stone and vaporized metal, lighting the night sky like fireworks.

Beside him, Alan panted madly for a few moments. Then he mastered himself and hit the comm to call John.

"Base, too," Scott reminded him, blue-violet eyes never leaving his instruments. "Let dad and mom know that we made it, Al. _All_ of us."

Because he stubbornly refused to believe that they could come so close, and still fail.

* * *

_Inside the Russian-made shuttle, descending toward the Pacific-_

A headache and shrill whistling noise woke him. That... and the sound of competing, staticky voices. Alan's worried,

_"WSA space capsule… there? Anyone… ing? Come in, plea… -10."_

And the quiet, terribly strained voice of Rachel Neer, in Houston.

_"S-10, Mission Control… this is Hous… ing S-10. Do you… py?"_

Took him a minute to work out that he was supposed to respond, and that his fierce headache was actually worsening. Something about the robot shuttle's noise sounded wrong, though… something he wasn't supposed to be hearing or feeling. _Wind..._ That was it. The reentry stage wasn't supposed to be drafty. Which probably meant they'd been hulled, and somehow survived.

Laboriously, John turned his aching boulder of a head, scanning past the view port's image of a fire-streaked sky, to the unconscious woman beside him. Linda Bennett was very pale, her mouth open and chest faintly moving. Something seemed to have lanced clear through the back of her seat and right shoulder, leaving a puffy, charcoal-edged wound. No blood, though, and her pulse, when he fumbled for it, felt strong. There were a number of holes in the hull, any of which would have killed them, had they reentered the atmosphere at a more normal speed.

His right arm felt as awkward and heavy as a telephone pole, but John brought it around, both mashing the comm button and patting Dr. Bennett. As she coughed and began to stir, he said,

"Houston… Thunderbird 3… S-10. Reception's intermittent… but we're receiving you."

From behind, above and all sides, streaks of glowing gold plasma rained through the darkness; bits of Freedom Station, Lunar City and the murderous asteroid, burning up in Earth's atmosphere.

"S' kind of pretty," he said, to no one and everyone.

_"I'll bet that it is, John," _Rachel responded, smiling with her whole voice. _"Can you up… status?"_

While Alan whooped,

_"John! You won't… of the crack in… helmet! That was… some! Want to… again?"_

John got his left hand working, though it felt curiously cold and stiff. Probably, he looked like h3//, too, though right now the capsule mattered much more than his physical state. He managed to punch a few keys with fingers that felt like pieces of petrified wood. Got the gibbering computer to run a systems check and then transmitted the results back to Houston.

Dr. Bennett made a thin, unhappy noise at his side; that of a half-conscious, injured disaster victim. He'd heard it many times before, on a hundred different rescues.

"It's okay, Doctor," he told her. "You're fine. Just a little longer… and then it's all photo ops and talk shows. Promise."

Her hand groped blindly for his. Or so John chose to believe; she could just as easily have been feeling around for aspirin or the mission abort lever… but he took her hand, anyway, and squeezed it. Said another voice, Scott's, this time,

_"John, this part's going… be… little tricky. Cleared it… Houston, yet, but…"_

Something about slowing to a near hover, just above the Pacific Ocean, and then dropping them into the water. But John shook his head, only after a moment realizing that Scott couldn't see him. Pressing the comm switch with his free hand, he said,

"That's a negative, Thunderbird 3. Too many holes… possibly through the balloon floats, as well. We'll ship water… and sink like a brick. Repeat, _negative_."

At a modest estimate, his headache had exceeded the physical boundaries of skull and cabin, both. John thought about swimming. Tried to recall whether the seat cushions worked as a floatation device in spacecraft, or not… but all he came up with was fuzzy thoughts and mental static.

* * *

_Thunderbird 2, banking in above Thunderbird 3 and the robot capsule-_

"What about this," Virgil suggested. _"You_ hold position and keep your tractor beam steady, Scott… then I come in, nice and slow, and lower Gordon in the basket. He gets down level with the capsule's escape hatch, knocks politely, and gets the two astronauts out of there. _Then,_ you drop your beam and let the capsule hit the water, while I haul in my catch. What do you think, Scott? Sound like a plan?"

_"Works for me,"_ his older brother replied. _"John wasn't too happy with the splashdown scenario, anyway; says his crewmate's slightly injured. Let me run it past Dad and Houston, first, but we'll call it a definite maybe."_

"Understood. Call me back when you get the go-ahead, Scott."

In the meantime, Gordon was already out of his seat and headed for the rear hatch.

"Full survival gear and a med-kit," Virgil reminded him. "Just in case John's as bad off as he sounds, or you end up in the water."

Gordon Tracy gave his brother the sort of cheeky, confident grin that always made Virgil want to strangle him.

"Relax, Granddad," scoffed the athlete. "This one's wrapped up, tied with a bow and under the tree. I promise you."

He'd been like that during the Olympics, as well; boldly asserting which races he planned to enter and win, and what the eventual medal count would be… and smiling for the cameras when he'd turned out to be right. Virgil sighed and smiled back.

"This isn't a competition or a race, Gordon. You haven't got anything to prove. Just… be careful out there. Take care of yourself, and them, too."

He'd expected a smart-a$$ comeback, but the red-haired swimmer merely nodded, saying,

"Right. Back before there's time to miss me, Virgil. Hold the fort."

* * *

_Tracy Island-_

Hunched over the keyboard at his workstation, Brains punched in the parameters for Virgil Tracy's rescue scenario. In simulation, the capsule hung slightly below and behind Thunderbird 3, caught in the rocket's fuel-costly tractor beam… Thunderbird 2 just above, at full impellers, which would set up a right-angled, harmonic feedback situation… had to figure in the wind, just then blowing from the SE at about 21 knots… but there would be eddies and cross-currents between the two behemoths…

Scowling, Brains plugged another variable into the equation: Gordon Tracy, being lowered in a steel rescue basket… then two passengers, most likely too injured to climb out of their craft unassisted…

"The basket will h- have to be secured, Jeff," he decided, looking up at the worried Tracys. "In the, ah… the event that G- Gordon is called upon to, ah… to enter the S-10 capsule and ph- physically haul out its, ah… its passengers, the b- basket will swing free and, ah… and be almost impossible t- to access."

Jeff inhaled deeply, wishing he was up there on Thunderbird 2 to help his struggling sons. Pulled snug alongside him, meanwhile, Lucy bit her lip and waited.

"Tell Gordon to bring a set of magnetic clamps with him," said her husband. "The capsule's hull is mostly aircraft alloy and heat-shield ceramic, but there might be something the clamps will lock onto. Other than that… see if you can find a way to extend Thunderbird 3's tractor field to include Gordon and the rescue basket, Brains… and map an alternative landing site, in case plans B and C fall through."

"R- Right away, Jeff," the engineer answered, turning back to his keyboard and screen. While Brains clicked and muttered, Jeff said to his trembling wife,

"It's going to be fine, Lucy. They're coming home safe. This is what we do, and _that…_ what you're feeling right now… is the reason we do it. So other families and mothers have a chance to get their loved ones back."

Lucy gave him a brief, crooked smile, but her deep-blue eyes held more concern than real confidence. Nevertheless, she whispered, burying her face against his broad shoulder,

"I understand, Jeff… and I love you for having the strength to do this."

* * *

As soon as they received a "go", Virgil Tracy keyed open Thunderbird 2's lower hatch, and triggered the powerful basket winch. Gordon was suited up and already aboard (with a set of magnetic clamps, just in case). Keeping a sharp eye on his instruments and watching for drift, Virgil held his 'Bird steady, keeping the big girl in place over Thunderbird 3 like a hovering rock.

Outside, Gordon stood in the high-sided steel-mesh basket, mentally ticking off what lay ahead. He wore open-water rescue gear and a full-face helmet to protect his identity. News copters were already on their way, after all, and would probably beat WASP to the scene. No sense winding up on the cover of Time. Not without swim trunks and a chest full of medals, anyhow.

Caught by the wind below Thunderbird 2's great, thrumming hulk, his basket began to spin. 3 lay just forward and below, gleaming like a ruby needle in meteor and spotlight glow, but Gordon's real object lay almost directly beneath him; the battered and blackened robot shuttle, with its faintly visible Cyrillic lettering and cracked viewports. The hatch wasn't in a great position from his perspective, being at rather a slant, and facing the eastern horizon.

Be loads of fun getting in, Gordon told himself, looking about for the long, hook-ended gaff that his basket normally contained. There was absolutely nothing like a long stick with a hook at the end for pulling oneself alongside a ship… even one hovering in midair.

About halfway down, Gordon began to feel a tooth-rattling, dissonant vibration, like he'd been caught between rival (and very loud) rock bands. As Brains had warned, the two energy fields were interfering with each other, making it terribly hard to move against either the tractor beam or Thunderbird 2's impellers. _So?_ He'd been hard pressed before, with burning muscles and emptied lungs; pushing it for the win, regardless. He could handle this, too.

Inch by foot by yard, the basket dropped, spinning over black, open water. He smelled salt and fuel and hot metal, heard long, restless waves and powerful engines, along with a gusting wind and the clicking, settling S-10. Made the same noises as a just-parked sports car, funnily enough, while all around them meteor streaks showered down.

Gordon snapped the gaff free of its moorings as his basket swung gently beside the robot shuttle craft. Using the pole like a boat hook, he found something to attach it to (a ragged hull breach) and then pulled himself closer, hand over hand.

_"How's it going, Kiddo?"_ Virgil called over the headset.

"Getting there," the athlete grunted, wasting breath he didn't have to spare. "Give me just a sec…"

_"Right. Take your time. No hurry."_

Gordon shook his head at the pilot's rather anxious, nursemaid-y tone. Virgil hadn't liked involving his youngest brothers in the "family business", and worried incessantly, still. They'd been lucky so far, though…

Shaking the distracting thought from his mind, Gordon labored to haul himself alongside the burnt capsule, which was about the size of a large passenger van. Once there, he started to reach for those magnetic clamps, but the tightly focused tractor beam got to him, first; snapping Gordon's steel basket tight to the S-10's escape hatch. The basket rang like a church bell, and Gordon was almost knocked sprawling; down on one knee and a hand over raging dark water.

He recovered his composure after a moment and got to his feet, thinking: _d*mmit!_ Furious with himself because there was no other way into the capsule but the hatch that his rescue basket was now half-blocking.

* * *

_Thunderbird 3-_

Stuck. Of all the things they hadn't considered, that the rescue basket might get hauled into the tractor field and jammed against the hatch topped the d*mn heap.

"Okay, listen," Scott told his waiting brother, "I'm going to call John. That hatch opens inward, to take advantage of the pressure difference in space. If there's room enough, and he and his crewmate can get to the airlock, you should still be able to pull them on through."

_"Right,"_ said Gordon. _"If not, maybe Virgil can hoist me up again for another try, a bit farther up."_

Scott nodded seriously, and then switched his comm settings. Since anyone in the world who could access WSA frequencies might be listening, he said,

"S-10, this is Thunderbird 3. If we can get you two to the airlock, we'll collect that fare, now, and put you out on the curb. Figure you owe about five-hundred-fifty-seven dollars… _annnd_ thirty-five cents. Not including tip."

"Bite me," John replied, smiling a little. "Check's in the mail." Then, recalling that Houston, the press, and a mob of school kids were probably listening, he said, "Um… no problem, I mean. Just charge it to Pete McCord, care of the World Space Agency, in Houston."

Scott's staticky reply was sort of hard to understand, being cut through by Pete's… but John was already moving, anyhow. He clicked the mic, then unstrapped from his seat with leaden slow limbs; feeling as though he were swimming through peanut butter. Beside him, Dr. Bennett made bleary effort to release her own safety straps. Couldn't very well move that injured arm, though.

"Here," he panted. "I've got it. We'll be out in just a moment, Doctor. These, um… IR pilots are trained professionals."

More or less. Gordon had started drumming on the hull outside. Impatient, apparently. Sounded like an old Aerosmith drum solo, though it could have been Ice Pick… felt like one, anyway.

John levered the doctor out of her seat, making the most out of this opportunity to embrace her. He'd missed her very much, John realized… which just didn't make any sense. Maybe he shouldn't have kissed her, but she could always have him court-martialed, later. Once… _if_… they made it to safety.


	11. 11: What Happens in Orbit

Happy New Year and Joyous fresh start, everyone!

**11: What Happens in Orbit…**

_Aboard a tractored and hovering space capsule, just above the Pacific Ocean-_

Both hatches were unlocked remotely from Houston; their bolts snapping free with a brief alarm and sharp click. Just as well, because John couldn't support his sagging crewmate and still handle a two-man egress procedure. There was an explosive-release option for the outer hatch, but this wasn't really feasible while Gordon's basket was pasted to the hull right outside. (Although it might have stopped him from drumming.)

John's movements were achingly slow. Several times he found himself leaning against his seat or the bulkhead, unsure of what he was doing, or why. Bad time to be daydreaming, the astronaut told himself, determined to pay better attention from then on. Fortunately, constant cues were provided by Rachel, in Houston, and his brother, Scott. Then the doctor roused a bit, and that helped still further.

"John," she whispered, as he muscled open the first airlock hatch, "I'm cold."

"We'll be out in a minute," he promised her. "Thunderbird 2's got blankets and coffee, and a place to lie down. Just a little longer, and you're there, Doctor."

Into the cramped airlock, then, with Linda taking the slow, shuffling steps of a very old woman; biting her lower lip and trying not to cry. He half carried her across the shifting deck, struggling against the combined power of two meshing force fields. Only five-and-a-half-feet in reality, the traversal felt like a d*mn marathon.

They made it to the outer hatch after several pauses and restarts. The porthole glowed with floodlights and meteor streaks, blocked from time to time by Gordon's silhouette. John gave his worried brother a slight wave. Then he opened the second hatch, too; yanking it inward with most of his remaining strength.

Moist, silky wind poured inside, along with a wave of sharp fumes, throbbing engine roar and a slightly scorched smell. The rescue basket's steel mesh side blocked about half of the opening, but there was just enough space at the top to squeeze through. Gordon reached inward, taking Linda from John, who slumped against the bulkhead, momentarily, then straightened again to help push.

"Got her," grunted the young athlete. "One down, Thunderbird 3… All right, "Lieutenant", your turn… _Up we get._ God… You sure weigh a lot, for a skinny guy! What do they pack in those space meals?!"

John didn't answer, being too preoccupied with putting a hand to the S-10's battered and blackened hull. She was going down, he realized. About to be cut loose so that basket and passengers could swing to safety. And just like the station's, John regretted her loss.

"Thank you," he said to the robot shuttle, meaning it.

"No problem," Gordon replied cheerfully, mistaking John's intent. His older brother let the matter rest, not expecting anyone else to understand.

When both passengers were secured on the damp floor of the basket, Gordon called the all-clear. Then, at last, Scott powered down his tractor beam. Slowly; just in case Thunderbird 2's rescue basket snagged on the capsule, somehow. Also just in case, Gordon stood alertly by with the gaff, ready to push off.

S-10 began to slip, which to John was like watching a friend lose their grip on the edge of a crumbling cliff. Picking up speed, she rushed past them like part of the meteor shower; flashing white, red and black… and then gone. Her booming impact sent up a great spray of seawater, spattering the occupants of the basket. Then, spinning and swinging like a pendulum, they began to ascend toward the flat, green belly of Thunderbird 2.

Just ahead of them (low on fuel and altitude) Thunderbird 3 glided out of the spotlight. Wind gusted sharply from the southeast, meanwhile, smelling of Earth and survival. Glittering bits of the station and city rained all around them, most burning up before reaching the ocean. Some struck water with loud cracks and wild hissing, or rattled… hard… against Thunderbird 2. John noted all of this, as well as the sodden and floundering capsule. Then he turned away to put an arm around Linda, because she was shivering.

It hadn't hit home, yet, that they'd made it; they were safe. Nor would it till, cleaned up and bandaged, Linda and John were lowered to the deck of the _USS Coral Sea._

Turned out, he'd sustained a concussion during the whiplash-brutal capture and acceleration phase of their rescue. In the days that followed he kept having "brown-outs". Moments when, although apparently conscious and functioning, John briefly lost touch with his surroundings. It was put down to distraction and restlessness, at first, because the flight surgeons were reluctant to ground him.

Dr. Bennett's injuries were mostly physical, ranging from shock and a fractured right scapula to her pierced and partly-burnt shoulder. Maybe a little forgetfulness, too, because she didn't bring up his behavior on the station. Not immediately, at least.

Back in Houston, there would be a short quarantine period jammed with medical tests, interviews and psych evals. Afterward, he and Linda were welcomed by the gathered personnel of the World Space Agency (Pete even going so far as to hug Dr. Bennett… claiming later that she'd given him frostbite).

Their families were allowed to see them somewhat later. Linda didn't have anyone close or mobile enough to invite. She'd simply intended on going straight home from the WSA reception area, but John had other ideas. He wanted to introduce her, the lieutenant claimed; just so his family would have a face and personality to put with the narrative. _Sure_.

"You certainly have a lot of relatives," Linda whispered, as a mass of Tracys came pouring into the comfortably-furnished Blue Room. Her right arm was still in a sling, and she wore her brown hair tied back in a simple ponytail. For clothing, just jeans and a dark green agency polo-shirt, with her gold astronaut pin and no makeup. John was dressed similarly, though his Khaki pants and leather shoes looked pricier than Linda's entire wardrobe.

"Brothers, mostly," he explained of the oncoming (very loud) horde. "Plus Dad and Grandma. On the bright side, they're hardly ever in one place at the same time. So, I can usually…"

Then he stopped talking, because his mother… Well, of course Mom was there. Why wouldn't she be? Nevertheless, amid backslaps, rough hugs, friendly insults and congratulations, John's focus remained mostly on Lucinda Tracy. She was holding a squirming two-year-old Eurasian boy, and did not choose to enter the astronaut-centered rugby scrum. John had to slip through the crowd to reach her.

"_Mom_…?" he asked, like someone waking from a very long nightmare.

She smiled at him, shifted the little dark-haired boy, and then rose on tiptoe to kiss John's cheek.

"Hello, Sweetie. Welcome back," said his mother, as though nothing had ever happened.


	12. 12: Seismic Shift

Sorry so slow, folks; relearning to balance life, sports, family time and writing.

**12: Seismic Shift**

_Tracy Island-_

Alan was on hiatus; "finding himself", so to speak. Having completed high school (finally!) and not yet ready to take the college plunge, he was back at home, helping with rescues, annoying his brothers, setting up role-play scenarios and scheming to win for himself a stock car and racing team. Even knew which color and number he'd use: bright red and "3", like his favorite Thunderbird and Dale Earnhardt, Jr.

The trouble was, that "finding himself" excuse would only work for so long, because his dad really, _seriously, _believed in higher education. As in,

_"No son of mine is going to sit on his a$$ and his trust fund, blah, blah, blah…"_

Yeah. Didn't matter that Alan actually _did_ have a plan and plenty of driving ambition… that he genuinely _wanted_ to succeed. None of that counted for beans if it wasn't done in the patented Jeff Tracy manner. Everyone else had managed, after all. Scott had gone to the Air Force Academy, Virgil to a Denver technical school and John to Princeton. Heck… even _Gordon_ had done it, majoring in long-distance basket-weaving at the University of Kansas while vacuuming up a slew of gold medals for the US Olympic swim team (earned a bachellor's degree, too… not that it showed).

Maybe Alan could have done the same, if International Rescue hadn't been folded into the family stew pot like a quarter stick of live dynamite. But because of IR… because Alan longed to fly in space at the helm of Thunderbird 3… something else had to give.

_He_ would have voted his schooling off the proverbial stage, but his father had other ideas, along with the money and power to back those notions right up. And so Alan was left checked, mated and staled. Utterly without, y'know… remaining moves. Right. Well, the young man's usual confidante when fed up clear to _there_ was his brother John, who might not have been very sympathetic, but at least always listened.

That afternoon, on a day of high, scudding clouds and eerily quiet birds, Alan found the astronaut out on the lower pool deck; nursing a beer and working at WSA stuff on his laptop.

"Busy," John snapped, without looking up, but Alan ignored him and sat down at the wrought iron patio table, anyhow. Hauling a metal chair scraping and clattering across the tiled floor, the blond would-be racer flopped into the seat with a heavy sigh. John _still_ didn't look up; tapping away at his keyboard as though there was nothing in the world more important than assigning civilian mission specialists to the Moon Station repair crew.

Alan lowered his head to his folded, tanned arms and sighed again, louder than before. On-and-off sunlight splintered and danced off his bright hair, and John's, too. In the distance, unseen waters rumbled and hissed, disputing with Kanaho's black sand shoreline. A muttering wind rattled the table's umbrella, Alan's flowered shirt and John's black tee and khakis. But the weather these days was often confusing; the seas very rough.

"I don't suppose there's any chance you'll get bored and just leave, is there?" the astronaut suggested, closing a window to click on his next task.

"John, you've _got_ to talk to him!" Alan blurted, as though his brother had asked what was wrong. "He thinks racing's stupid. Says I need a "serious" interest… "Something to fall back on". Like who I am depends on a piece of dang paper from some stupid university, or something! Can you believe that crap?"

John grunted noncommittally, pausing work long enough to drain the last of his beer and glance briefly at Alan. About the same time that Gordon loped out of the house in a blue swimsuit, towel over one sunburnt shoulder, the astronaut said,

"Dad's used to running things his own way. He didn't give me a hard time about the astronaut corps, or Scott the Air Force, because both of those things make sense to him. But Gordon's coach had to talk himself hoarse promising that his GPA wouldn't drop below 3.6 before Dad would let him try out for nationals. Mom had the final vote, though. That helped."

He paused, then, frowning at a strange and off-kilter thought. Naturally, Alan didn't notice.

"Yeah, well, she's not gonna vote yes for _me_!" the young man groused, slouching low on his hard metal chair. Returning Gordon's brief wave without much enthusiasm, Alan said, "She thinks car racing's dangerous."

"It is," John responded, losing track of that worrisome thought, again. "But so's flying in space. So's rescuing people. Matter of priorities, Alan. _Those_ things, they can justify taking a risk for. Racing…"

The astronaut lifted and then dropped his slim shoulders.

"Auto racing is expensive, dangerous, and doesn't accomplish anything meaningful from Dad's perspective. Sucks… but that's how it is."

Alan plucked at his lower lip with the thumb and crooked forefinger of one hand, thinking deeply. Over in the lower pool, meanwhile, Gordon plunged into the water with almost no splash, commencing to swim laps.

"Okay…" the young man mused. "So what if I could come up with a way to _make_ it meaningful? Like… if I told him I could test drive and show off new TA engine enhancements, or something?"

John gave vent to another "_whatever_" kind of grunt, and then said,

"It's Tracy Aerospace, Alan… not Tracy Automotive. You'd be better off pitching high-test lubricants or no-fail tires. Suggest branching out with product lines that he's already got a market for."

Alan stared at John. Then he began to look hopeful, his sky-blue eyes widening just a little.

"You think he'd go for it?" the younger man asked, leaning eagerly forward across the table to seize John's arm. The astronaut jerked free at once.

"Anything's possible," he remarked, hitching his chair further away and returning to work. "I'll see if Brains has any ideas for a world-beating engine lubricant… but only if you promise to stop talking and go away."

Dang, it was weird... wanting to bust someone's computer over their head and hug them, at the same time. Alan did neither, bounding to his feet with a grin, instead.

"Fine, then. Be that way. But when I'm covered in roses, popping champagne corks and kissing dozens of hot, luscious race-babes… I'll turn to the camera and wave at you."

John looked up again, cocking a blond eyebrow. Before he had a chance to say anything, though, Hackenbacker burst from the mansion, looking like a man with a lot more on his mind than industrial-strength lubricants.

* * *

The situation elsewhere was growing critical. Deep within a score of Earths, an old and powerful process continued to slow, causing side effects among migratory animals, commercial vessels and global weather systems. Great flocks of seabirds wheeled through the skies in confusion; fluttering about until exhaustion claimed them and they dropped to their deaths in the churning waters below. Compasses wavered and GPS units gibbered. Boats and aircraft lost their bearings. Meanwhile, fed by increasing radiation levels, storms would reach a pitch of monstrous violence never before seen.

Bad enough on the face of it; but, while the scientific community scrambled to find the cause of all this, and International Rescue dashed from one disaster to the next, certain folk connived to take advantage of the situation; planning how best to harness catastrophe. How to make it pay off.


	13. 13: Profit and Loss

Kind of late, sorry; still recovering from a triple-overtime victory against Rage in the early-bird tournament. But what a game! =) Small edit... Thanks for the reviews, Sam, Ed and Tikatu. Hi there, Moonhera!

**13: Profit and Loss**

_Tracy Island, late afternoon, on the lower pool deck-_

The wind picked up a bit as Brains hurried to join John and Alan; almost seeming to propel him, leaf-like, toward the tall brothers. His omni-present lab coat fluttered, and the screen of his PDA flashed urgently green as he came to them. Alan fetched another chair, while John rather sourly shut down his laptop in the face of yet _more_ company.

"G- Gentlemen," Hackenbacker began, blinking at them behind the lenses of his auto-focus spectacles, and waving the PDA. "I, ah… I h- hope that I'm not disturbing you?"

Thinking, _"More heads mean better strategies,"_ Alan said,

"Disturb us? You…? _Nah._ Besides, John was just going to tell you to invent all this cool new engine stuff, so I can convince Dad to let me race."

John began rubbing his temples with the fingers and thumb of one hand. He looked a lot like Jeff when he did that. Brains seemed not to hear Alan's statement, though; or else he'd brushed it aside for more important matters. Toppling into the metal chair like a dropped puppet, the dark-haired engineer gave Alan a vague sort of smile and then turned to John, saying,

"I've, ah… I've been l- looking over the, ah… the data you c- compiled by s- scanning the Earth's, ah… Earth's interior fro orbit, John."

The astronaut looked up, nearly meeting Hackenbacker's gaze before glancing restlessly aside, again. Blue-violet eyes narrowing slightly, he asked,

"Did you turn up anything useful?"

"Y- Yes, indeed," the older man responded, nodding vigorously. "Q- Quite useful and, ah… and puzzling, t- too. Th- These data represent densely compacted, three dimensional s- scans of the planet's interior, made in, ah… in apparent r- real time."

Hackenbacker now set his small computer upon the wrought iron table and squared it precisely. Then, blinking anxiously across lacy black metal at John and Alan, he said,

"Th- The question is, _how?_ How were you able to, ah… to m- make such a detailed s- survey with just the, ah… the equipment contained aboard F- Freedom Station?"

Yeah. About that… John supposed that Ike was expecting an answer. Only trouble was, the white-blond astronaut hadn't got one. So he shrugged and quoted a movie instead, saying,

"Grit, spit and duct tape."

Alan grinned appreciatively and slapped his back, but Brains only looked irritated.

"P- Please," he insisted, as Gordon surged from the water and loped on over, energetically toweling off, "I h- have to v- verify the, ah… the source of these d- data before y- your findings c- can be published and, ah… and shared with the scientific c- community, John."

Understandable… and ultimately impossible. Because he wasn't certain, any longer, how he'd managed the trick. Brains was right; the space station's primitive weapons-scan system should not have been powerful enough to penetrate the Earth's crust and mantle. Slowly, groping after plausibility, John said,

"I hacked into a government satellite array and, um… and the geologic survey computer in Washington. Then I linked them all to give my scan higher resolution and penetrating ability. Seemed like the thing to do at the time… but I'd appreciate it if you left that part out, when talking to Dad and the press."

Ike frowned a little, but nodded; moving over when Gordon arrived and pulled up a chair of his own.

"What aren't we telling Dad?" the redhead asked, carelessly. He rang the table's call button at the same time, being (as usual) very hungry. "Somebody scratch the paint job on Thunderbird 1?"

At this point, John's private work session was well on its way to becoming a party, and he would have preferred to go elsewhere. The thing about brothers was that they tended to accumulate around any available nucleus, like ice crystals. But all _he'd_ wanted to do was finish a mountain of WSA busy-work. Fortunately, Alan intervened, shoving Gordon with rough friendliness that scarcely budged the muscular athlete.

"Don't even joke, Dumb-butt! You bang up Thunderbird 1… don't bother coming home till you've pulled all the dents out, yourself. Dad and Scott would take turns killing you."

His audience nodded rueful agreement at the half-joke, so Alan flashed them a bright grin and continued, also in movie-speak.

"Let me explain. No… that would take too long. Let me summarize: John was working on boring WSA crap when I came up to save him by asking for help convincing Dad and Mom to let me race. He suggested inventing a high-test lubricant to showcase in the ol' Alan-mobile. Then Brains enters the scene, asking how John could get such a kick-butt Earth scan… you with me so far, Bro?"

Gordon nodded absently, but his attention was on the wind-ruffled figure of TinTin, coming from the house in response to the call button.

"Sure, Alan. Race, Earth-scan. Got it."

Uh-huh. Alan cleared his throat sharply, reclaiming Gordon's hazel-eyed gaze (for a moment, at least).

"Yeah, so _anyways…_ Moving right along, John confessed to breaking into a few government systems to get more power, but he didn't want Brains to tell Dad. End of story," the would-be race driver finished, bowing from the waist.

Gordon shrugged his broad, sunburnt shoulders.

"Works for me," he said, "so long as no one can track those security breaches back to John or T.A. _That_ could get embarrassing."

TinTin arrived, then, smiling at them all and holding a laden tray. She'd brought heaps of enticing snack food, which Alan and Gordon sprang up to help her set on the table.

"Will this be enough," the girl teased, indicating split rolls, cheese, sandwich meats, chips and condiments, "or have I missed something?"

"Drinks," Gordon told her, making two sandwiches at a time and devouring them both like a famished tiger shark. (Except that he didn't shake his head to pull food loose when he ate. Fortunately.) "But you don't have to do all the work. Al and I can follow you up to the house and help carry them back here, Angel."

Alan scowled at him; maybe not wanting to walk that far, maybe resenting the pet names. TinTin smiled, though; her face exotic and beautiful and just a bit pink. Adjusting the tray, she accidentally brushed the back of Gordon's hand.

"Come along, then, both of you," the girl smiled, dark hair swinging like silk past her perfect face as she straightened once more. Then,

"Beer?" she guessed, looking at John. He nodded.

"Make it two. I need to think."

Hackenbacker wanted only bottled water, but Gordon and Alan would require at least a six-pack each of their favorite soda. Rather a lot to carry, which meant that Kyrano's daughter was going to need help. When TinTin and her hormone-spiked admirers at last headed off, John made himself a ham and cheese sandwich, then proceeded to ignore it.

"What did you find out," he said to Brains, instead of eating.

"Th- That the, ah… the core's rotation appears t- to be slowing," the engineer told him, nibbling reflectively at a sprig of parsley. "Reason unknown."

Not entirely. John knew, or thought he did. For he could hear in his mind a strangely beautiful, inhuman voice suggesting that the core's energy might be restored by sapping power from other Earths. Other dimensions.

"It's being stolen," he said, staring down at his barely-sampled food. "To keep something else alive. Don't ask how I know, because I'm not sure, myself, Ike. Just... that's what's happening."

Glancing over at his friend, John was swept with a sudden weird feeling of unreality. As though, like Alice, he had only to cry, _"You're nothing but a pack of cards!"_ to make the people around him disappear.

Hackenbacker finished the parsley and then started on a beautifully-carved radish rose. To his credit, he didn't scoff at John's odd-sounding statement. It wasn't much stranger than Boltzmann Brains or Holographic Universes, after all.

"I s- see," the engineer replied, blinking back peppery-radish and wind tears. "Well, then, the, ah… the next question becomes, h- how do we stop this, ah… this power theft, before our own w- world is drained to a stand-still?"

* * *

_Elsewhere, in the penthouse suite of a mighty skyscraper-_

Previously, he'd battled Jeff Tracy with technology and espionage; the tools (he was coming to see) of pallid mimicry. But matters were very different, now, his resources vastly multiplied.

Staring through the gleaming window of his corner office at bustling, downtown Singapore, the man swirled ice cubes and whiskey in a wide, cut-crystal tumbler. From this vantage, people, traffic and lives lay very far beneath him; small as ants and therefore crushable. Manipulable. Therefore pawns.

Jeff Tracy fought always with money and political power, using his sons as weapons and his corporation as a shield. Well… The Hood smiled to himself, watching as a sun in splendour gilded sprawling, opulent, festering Singapore. Money and public opinion were blades that could turn without warning in their wielder's grasp, while sons… Sons could be captured and killed. One at a carefully plotted time.


	14. 14: Deletion

Short one, this time, but kind of pivotal.

**14: Deletion**

You might look backward with longing many times, but eventually, what was left would fall behind and start to fade. So it is with memory, especially when distractions arise. _Those_ there were in plenty, including what happened weeks later to Virgil.

He, too, had a life outside of IR; occasionally jetting away from the island for Tracy Aerospace business trips. Virgil was a good choice for these, being a handsome young man; personable and persuasive. Clients instinctively liked and trusted the former football player, leading to many sealed deals and signed contracts. Thus, the ersatz, Jeff-sanctioned vacation.

On this particular morning, while the scientific community debated John Tracy's core-scan data, his brother Virgil headed for the branch office in Rio de Janiero. The big pilot didn't fly himself there this time, because he had a stack of documents to read, local business plans to absorb, and several Portuguese language programs to complete (though he'd much rather have traded places with the pilot).

The weather was good, flying out of Kanaho, and it continued fair until they crossed over the sky-shredding Andes. Then the day grew violent and stormy, with contrary winds and spiteful, lashing squalls. Virgil wasn't troubled, however; he'd flown through much worse in Thunderbird 2. Instead of annoying the pilot or calling home, he simply raised his coffee mug for a refill and then returned to the challenge of Portuguese vowels.

As they shot later into the day, chasing afternoon, the weather grew wilder. The cabin windows by his swiveling leather seat turned grey and slashed with rain, while somewhere far below, the Amazon Jungle lay shrouded in dense cloud; hidden, along with Sao Paolo and Rio. IFR conditions, to say the least, because the world outside their jet was nothing but rumbling, roiling storm. Still, they made progress of sorts.

Virgil had to put away his laptop and coffee cup when the Lear Jet began to descend. At the flight crew's prompting, he also fastened his seatbelt. The ride grew increasingly bumpy. A blue-uniformed stewardess was strapped into a seat up front, in the small galley by the plane's cockpit. She had the intense, serious air of someone about to face their greatest test, and she'd spoken very little… But maybe having the boss's son aboard made her nervous.

_No one_ minded ferrying Gordon or Alan, while John either flew himself or was so wrapped up in his work that he scarcely noticed when the plane touched down. A pet rock was more trouble to carry around.

Scott, the employees stood in awe of, as Jeff Tracy's strong-willed heir apparent. Brown-haired Virgil was somewhere in between; liked _and_ respected, though not often hit on, romantically. (Hardly surprising, as Jeff's standing order held that whenever his sons flew in a company jet, the flight attendants were either to be male, or married. Safer, that way.)

Virgil was tugged from his reverie when the engines changed pitch to a low, throbbing drone. Wing and tail servomotors whined; altering their shape as the plane spiraled downward through shearing gales and hammering rain. The aircraft juddered and bounced, making a shuttle-cock's gradual headway through the clouds. Their pilot announced final approach after a series of hair-raising banks, but it took them awhile to land, even so.

Lightning flashed outside the window, briefly spotlighting Virgil's calm face and strong profile. His brown eyes were turned almost black by each flaring storm-glow, while the cabin shone bone-white, strobe-lit and eerie. All except for the flight attendant, that is. She sat perfectly erect in her seat, gazing at Virgil with strange yellow eyes.

That a landing took place was indisputable. At the right airport, even. Yet in all the rain and foul weather, with one dark limousine and rain-suited chauffeur looking pretty much like every other, Virgil Tracy was swiftly and quietly kidnapped.

Naturally, he'd stridden across the tarmac from boarding ladder to waiting car with his head down. The driver had a wind-rattled umbrella, but hard, pelting rain came in sideways despite it; making it difficult for Virgil to see. The man shouted something to him that might have been,

"Welcome to Rio, Mr. Tracy!"

…but the wind snatched his words clean away, together with Virgil's neutral,

"Thanks."

The lights from a cluster of low buildings were just visible to his left, but Virgil spent more time watching the slick, dark pavement at his feet. He couldn't see very well with water running into his eyes. Should've brought a hat, Virgil chided himself… except that he'd wanted to seem professional, and hadn't expected the weather to turn on him, like this.

Then the long, purring hulk of a car came into view; welcome as a Pacific island with an airstrip and water. Its headlights made twin amber beams through the rain, advertising dryness and warmth. The passenger door creaked opened for him then, pushed wide by someone inside. A body guard, he thought.

Stooping to swing himself into the limousine, Virgil exposed the back of his head and neck. Something struck him, hard, causing sudden hot pain like another lightning-flash. He staggered and slipped, rubber-legged, barely feeling the needle-jab which followed. Ice seemed to course through Virgil's body at the speed of his own surging blood. With no time for an outcry, he dropped like a stone; was shoved into the car and then tightly bound.

Working quickly, controlled from without by the will of another, Virgil's kidnappers searched his pockets and person. Anything that might be used to trace him was torn away. His smart-phone, watch, laptop and briefcase were discarded alongside a private hangar belonging to one of Brazil's wealthiest families. Then the limousine simply drove away through the storm, bearing an unconscious prisoner and three possessed agents.

Like the plane's unfortunate flight crew, these men would be discovered later, their minds scraped empty, hollow and raw. But of Virgil, there was no trace at all.


	15. 15: Uplink

Couldn't resist. Explanations later, I promise. Edited.

**15: Uplink**

_Tracy__ Island-_

Their first response was shock and disbelief that anything bad could have happened to Virgil, who never in his life had made a real enemy. Faulty communications, they thought, or some combination of minor accident and poor cell phone coverage. Then the plane's emptied and witless flight crew were found, and afterward the company chauffeur; all of them blank and staring and helpless.

The well-meaning Brazilian Police Department and Interpol swung into rapid action on behalf of the Tracy family. Taps were placed on all of Jeff's phone lines and internet accounts, just in case a ransom demand was made (and could be traced). Lucy, too, had her communication-media tracked, and so did each of the boys (less John, who found such basic surveillance methods insulting).

Teams of investigators were dispatched to Tracy Island, to TA regional headquarters and the district office of Da Silva Incorporated, the company with which Virgil had been sent to do business. The family and dozens of employees were interviewed separately and at length, while time passed and hope spiraled downward.

With all of those strangers about, prying, searching and photographing the entire island, not one rescue could safely be launched, and no one could really _speak;_ not Jeff to his sons, not Hackenbacker to John, not Kyrano to Mr. Tracy (about his recent, troublesome visions). On their own island, they were frustrated prisoners.

* * *

The Hood, meanwhile, with possessed or bribed agents, continued prodding his enemy into position; using this investigator or that reporter to comb through the secrets of Tracy Island, looking always for the flaw or chink that would reveal what he already knew lay hidden.

In the body of Detective-Inspector Sanji, the patient villain could go where he pleased and ask the most worrisome questions, always with a slight, oily smile. Two days after the kidnapping, as he wandered the sunny patio and rear garden area (recording everything) the inspector gestured at the pools' wind-rippled surfaces, and asked,

"Why _two_ swimming pools, if I may be so bold as to inquire, Sir?"

Jeff and Scott Tracy were escorting the man about the premises that day. Though tense with worry and anguish, they did their level best to be patient with this slim, dark-haired intruder.

"One's a little larger than the other," explained Jeff, hand raking his iron-grey hair, mind mostly elsewhere. "It's used mostly for Gordon's practice laps and wind sprints. The other pool is more recreational in nature… meant for parties, and such."

Detective-Inspector Sanji smiled and bowed.

"Ah, of course," he replied, in a softly modulated voice, "I was forgetting the splendid achievements of your fourth son, Gordon. Seven gold medals in 2062, was it not? Twelve medals in all? Marvelous! What a pity that he chose to retire from swimming so… suddenly. But can he still require such ardent practice, Sir, having now removed himself from active competition?"

It was Scott who answered this time, courteous, despite his own gut-wrenching concern and impatience.

"I don't think Gordon knows how to be still, retired or not," said the tall, handsome pilot. "Now, if you've seen enough out here, Mr. Sanji…?"

The detective smiled at Scott, with just a hint of foul yellow about his seemingly placid dark eyes.

"But of course, Mr. Tracy."

Waving in the direction of the round house, he then said,

"Let us proceed to examine the unusual structure before us, Gentlemen. A most interesting shape, no? I should like to question its inmates and see what evidence I might turn up."

Jeff's hands were balled into tight fists in his trouser pockets, a gesture the Hood noted and cherished. While other inspectors roamed here and about, probing and questioning, "Sanji" trotted off in the direction of the towering round house. He could sense Jeff Tracy's bitter helplessness; could feel him squirming inside at all the fuss and delay. Savored the man's despair for his missing son.

_'So burdened already, Jeff?'_ The villain mocked in his ice-cold heart. _'And how will you react, I wonder, when I unleash my disaster? Will you fly to the rescue, revealing all… or huddle upon your island like a spineless coward?'_

He began to hum a little, under his breath and in tune with the rising wind. From the Hood's perspective, matters were going very well, indeed.

* * *

_Elsewhere-_

Virgil wasn't permitted to wake, though he struggled toward consciousness like a drowning swimmer fighting for air. Numbness and chilly lassitude dragged at the young man's thoughts, preventing him from moving or calling out. Not that there was anyone present to hear.

He didn't know what had happened, or where he was; not even his own name, quite. Just that the taunting-cold presence in his head had got to be resisted. That he must not let it take over, no matter the cost.

* * *

The trouble with possessing great power is the tendency to view one's self as utterly capable. A mighty quantum entity, able to shift probability at will, could still not completely control how the numbers arranged themselves, for these things were random.

Nevertheless, Five had moved John Tracy from a locus of extreme danger, to a safer universe, intending to:

A) Back up his files, and…

B) Debug the core of Earth Prime

But chaos had crept into the system once more. Instability had been exported to the new dimension along with John Tracy. Error began to accumulate. Five in her original version might have attempted a physical intervention, through proxies and subroutines. This more evolved iteration, however, chose to do otherwise.

Contained within her memory files was a second option. There existed a mirror universe which had once before proven to alter John Tracy's locus. Overt programming moves made there, once a link was established, would result in more subtle change _here_. Safe, undetected manipulation would thus be possible. …And causing Tracy 5.0 to re-open a long-sealed game file was all the intervention required.


	16. 16: Registry Change

Edits are on their way. This one's kind of long, though. Thanks, Silver Bee, Mitzy, Tikatu, Sam and Ed, for your comments and reviews.

**16: Registry Change**

_Tracy Island, later that same afternoon-_

While Detective-Inspector Sanji plotted and probed, Kyrano drifted quiet as a leaf into Jeff Tracy's office. The man was shadow slim and very graceful, with a servant's knack for disappearing when not required. Unlike Jeff, he was short and slight of build; given to cooking and gardening rather than swift, vigorous action. He was also quite worried.

That day (as Interpol and teams of insurance investigators combed the premises) Kyrano sought his employer's attention. He found Jeff in the ornate mission office, sitting at his desk. Busy, naturally, for work was his chief comfort and medicine. On three lines at once, he'd phoned the press, the American consulate in Rio de Janeiro, and his business partner, Albert Jenkins.

Concern for his three-days-missing son was etched in deep lines on Jeff's craggy, tanned face; lack of sleep, too. Kyrano had to stand directly in front of the harried plutocrat before Jeff noticed him. Then, bowing, the slim manservant said,

"Please pardon me for disturbing you, Mr. Tracy. There is something I must tell you, which has troubled me greatly, of late."

Jeff straightened at once like a mongoose catching the scent of nearby cobras; literally, bolt upright and bright-eyed.

"You know where Virgil is?!" he demanded, seeming ready to hurtle the massive teak desk to reach Kyrano.

The servant bowed again, saying,

"Regrettably, Sir: no. I do not. But there have been… You must think now with another mind, Mr. Tracy; not a logical, _western_ mind, but one attuned to the subtle world of spirits, powers and darkling whispers."

Jeff blinked, sitting slowly back in his big leather chair. He'd have asked Kyrano to have a seat, but his aging manservant was much too proper to accept. Always had been.

"You hired a psychic?" he blurted. Al's wife, Caroline, had suggested something of the sort, but Jeff Tracy had no time for such foolishness.

"Again, Sir: no. I would never presume to take the liberty. Rather, I have been experiencing…"

(Here, the slim, immaculately clothed Malaysian gestured helplessly with both fine-boned hands.)

"…Dreams and visions of a most disturbing nature. They involve your family, Sir, and mine… and they center upon my brother, Belaghant. It is my belief that he may have taken possession of someone on the island, Mr. Tracy."

Jeff leaned forward, causing the chair to creak beneath his shifting weight. Resting both elbows on his desk, he steepled his long fingers and said, carefully,

"The police assured us that your brother was dead, Kyrano. Remember? That blast he set off, trying to destroy Thunderbird 2, was extremely powerful. It's a miracle that Virgil was able to fly out of it, much less crash-land his 'Bird."

"And yet… survive, he did. And if one, why not another?" Kyrano protested gently, not quite meeting his employer's narrow brown gaze. "Many times in the last few nights, my rest has been troubled by visions of your son in a small, locked room; by visions of Belaghant triggering something larger and more dangerous yet, meant to draw you into direct confrontation and peril."

Jeff scowled, drumming his fingers. The possibility _did _fit what had happened to the aircraft and limousine folk, but…

"Could you be more specific?" he asked, while behind him, the wall-screen flashed soundless news and weather. "Where's this room you keep seeing? Who's your brother controlling, exactly?"

Wringing his elegant hands, Kyrano said,

"Alas, Mr. Tracy, I cannot say. Had I known these things, I would have revealed them at once."

"But Virgil's alive?" Jeff prodded anxiously. "You're sure about that, at least?"

Kyrano assented with a very slight nod.

"For the moment, Sir, yes. I feel this quite strongly. Your son lives, and is struggling mightily to regain full consciousness."

"So the Hood's got him…" Jeff mused, at once relieved and terrified. "Okay. Question is: what next? Belaghant won't want money."

"No, indeed, Mr. Tracy," Kyrano agreed in a mournful tone. "What my brother desires is utter and complete revenge. He would see you broken, suffering and ruined. He would have you plead for the lives of your wife and sons, only to laugh as you are forced to watch them all die. It has ever been the greatest weakness of Belaghant that he is not sane in his plans, but violent and wrathful."

Rising suddenly, Jeff pressed and reset his wrist comm three times, summoning Scott, John and Brains.

"Thank you for the information, Kyrano. Let's hope we have what it takes to act on it, and that the Hood's weaknesses are enough to help us bring him down."

Kyrano's grey head lowered.

"Mr. Tracy," he whispered, "I must once more apologize for the doings of this evil…"

Jeff cut him off with a sharp gesture, saying,

"You have no control over the Hood, Kyrano. After all that's happened, he'd hate me whether you worked here or not… except that without you, I wouldn't have the advantage of inside information. Bottom line, Belaghant's madness isn't your fault. Now… do me a favor, please, and stop anyone who tries to enter the office. I need to hold a conference with my oldest sons and Dr. Hackenbacker."

Kyrano bowed a third time, leaving the ornately decorated office just as Scott, John and Brains strode through the door.

"News?" Scott Tracy demanded, deeply worried for his best friend and brother, Virgil.

"In a manner of speaking," Jeff replied. "Have a seat, boys… Dr. Hackenbacker… and I'll try to explain."

Doing so took quite awhile, for Brains was a skeptical man and hard to convince. John reserved judgment, being (like his mother) the "show me" sort. But Scott was less critical, mostly because he'd have jumped at any hope of a live, salvageable Virgil.

"What do you want us to do, Dad?" the pilot asked bluntly, slicing through Brains' skepticism in mid-stream. "If what Kyrano says is true… if Virge is being held by the Hood, and we've got a mole on the island… what's our strategy?"

Said Jeff, lowering his voice to a near-whisper,

"First, we talk about this to _nobody._ For the moment, not even your mother, Gordon or Alan. Clear with me… in private… any and all actions. Other than that," Jeff Tracy looked around the room at tense, eager Scott, slim, silent John and Dr. Hackenbacker (still unmoved).

"Scott, I want you to improve security and concealment around the 'Birds. Belaghant hasn't found them yet, and I mean to keep it that way. Watch those detectives and Interpol agents. The Hood could possess any one of them; on a rotating basis, for all we know."

"Yes, Sir. I'm on it," Scott replied stoutly, though he'd have preferred more direct, forceful action.

"Good man," said his father, clapping a big hand to Scott's shoulder. Turning away, the elder Tracy next said,

"John."

"Sir?"

His astronaut son straightened away from the wall he'd been leaning against; unfolding to stand tall, blond and expressionless.

"John, you'll need to establish tap-proof phone and internet access from this office to my mainland business and government contacts. After that, see what you can do about patching me through to the World President. Legally, of course."

"Of course," John assured him, already plotting a network of false IP addresses, zombie desktops and hijacked mainframes. Given his task, the young man headed off with as much evident enthusiasm as he ever displayed. One had to fight the urge to check for a pulse, sometimes.

Two down, one to go. Turning to Hackenbacker, Jeff said,

"Set aside prejudice for awhile, Brains. I need you in top form, doing two things for me. First: _locate my son._ The Hood's got him, and is keeping him alive… as bait, possibly. Knowing Virgil, once he regains consciousness and realizes that this isn't just a ransom kidnapping, he'll try to escape or send a message. I need you, and every agent we've got, watching out for that message."

"U- Understood," Brains responded, nodding and folding his arms with swift, jerky movements. "And what is, ah… is th- the other thing you, ah… you wanted m- me to do?"

Jeff crossed the bright Persian rug to stand before his stiffly disapproving engineer.

"I want you to invent a way to drive Belaghant's… mind, force, whatever it is… the h3// off my land and away from my people. Psychic power is energy, right?"

Hackenbacker shrugged grudgingly, saying,

"In theory, y- yes, Jeff, but any self-respecting…"

"Good. Then find a way to block or divert that energy. I can't afford to have my people turning on me in the middle of all this. Get to work, Brains. If anyone can find a way to block the Hood's power, it's you."

For his own part, playing the stunned, grieving father, Jeff intended to go through with his wife's suggestion and make a televised "plea" for the safe return of their son. With Lucy at his side and a teleprompter hovering before his eyes, Jeff Tracy planned to show pictures of Virgil, some of them digitally altered to display what the brown-haired young man might look like with sunglasses, scruffy facial hair, a dye job… or unconscious, hidden away in a private rest-home, somewhere.

He also meant to offer money; not to the kidnappers, but to whoever provided a solid lead on Virgil's condition and whereabouts. All he needed now was sympathetic media coverage, and the right sort of nosy reporter. That... and a great deal of luck.

* * *

_Outside, in a buzzing electric cart, at around the same time-_

Detective-Inspector Sanji had been touring the island's facilities; driven here and there by Gordon and Alan. The process was slow, for Sanji insisted upon pausing frequently to examine this or that inconsequential landmark, commenting on all he saw with obsequious amazement.

Their short, palm-lined runway especially drew his wondering gaze, when the cart drew to a halt nearby.

"What can be the purpose of an airstrip so dangerously bounded with trees, ending at the side of a cliff?" the inspector asked Gordon, while Alan mimed strangling motions from the back seat. "Would such a runway not be terribly unsafe to use, most especially in the event of emergency?"

Inhaling deeply, Gordon Tracy forced himself to be patient, only just not laughing at Alan's wild gestures.

"Well," he said, quickly, "It _would _be, Inspector, if anyone actually landed there."

Hooking a thumb over one broad shoulder, Gordon added,

"See, back in the day, Dad was thinking of making this island one of TA's main headquarters. So he built the mansion and guesthouses, plus a few roads and this runway. The plan fell through for economic reasons, mostly because Kanaho's not as central as Manhattan is. So there he was with all of this needless infrastructure. Tearing it out would have cost more money and made an even bigger mess, so…"

"So he just hired some landscapers and made the best of things." Alan finished for him, leaning in from the back. "The palm trees are fake, too, because that runway was supposed to handle big helijets and cargo transports, so it's got this really wide roadbed."

"The soil's too shallow for actual trees," Gordon clarified, backing and turning their cart. "But anyway, why don't we head for the docks, Inspector? There's nothing else to see out here but the generators."

Seemed like the thing to do at the time, and Sanji acceded with a graceful, seated bow.

"As you prefer, Mr. Tracy. The island's power source is naturally quite important, but perhaps there are secrets of an… _industrial_ nature, which you would rather keep hidden."

Gordon's bright hazel eyes flicked away from the sun-spotted path, briefly. The look he gave oily, smiling Sanji was sharp as a scalpel. Over the cart's whine and the noise of crunching gravel, he said,

"We've cooperated from the moment you and your team showed up on this island, Inspector. Anything you want to see, I'll take you to. How about finding my brother, in return?!"

"Yeah," put in Alan, from the cart's back seat, "Why not go after Virgil, instead of wasting your time playing Inspector Gadget at all the places he _isn't._"

"Ah…" said the detective, glancing about himself with evident pleasure. "But there is much to learn, here; so much tension, roiling beneath your lovely island exteriors."

"What are you talking about?" Gordon demanded, halting their cart about halfway to the house.

Sensing trouble, Alan tried to get his brother's attention, but the athlete's gaze was fixed upon Sanji. Untroubled, the inspector shrugged; his shoulders lifting and dropping in a single, fluid motion.

"Your father possesses considerable wealth, Mr. Tracy; both privately owned and through publicly traded stock. Yet… there are five grown sons and a newly adopted sixth. Elimination of one leaves more money for all the rest, does it not?"

Gordon let go of the cart's steering wheel and turned to seize a double handful of Sanji's white shirt front.

"Inspector," he snapped, "shut the h3// up! Keep that garbage locked up in your head or you'll find yourself swimming home, with a mouthful of broken teeth."

Sanji gave him an oddly gloating smile.

"Be very careful, Mr. Tracy," the inspector told the wind-and-emotion ruffled redhead. "Such threats might easily get you arrested, and terrible things can happen to one who has been imprisoned. Dreadful things."

Gordon reacted strangely; releasing Sanji and shaking his head as though trapped in the grip of some hideous vision. Alan reached forward to steady his brother.

"Gordon, you okay, man? Shake it off, buddy. He can't arrest you for talking; not when he started it."

The former athlete turned to look at Alan, about the same time that the younger man's PlayStation Nano shifted in his pocket and gave a single, clear _ping._

_"System upgrades available,"_ it stated, in a softly computerized voice. _"Accept upgrades?"_

"Yeah, sure," Alan replied, not really paying attention. "Do what you want, just tell me about it later."

That he'd just given Five the widest scope imaginable, Alan Tracy hadn't a clue. All he knew was that Gordon had been badly shaken… and that Detective-Inspector Sanji was somehow responsible.

* * *

_Elsewhere-_

Bit by bit, his mind and environment were reassembling themselves. Enough so that Virgil began to get a sense of what might be happening to him. He was bound, for one thing; blindfolded and gagged, for another. The surface he lay upon was yielding and relatively soft. Like a bed, he thought.

There was also a sharp, regular needle-stick to the left arm, every four hours or so. Like having bricks dropped on his head and ice flood his veins… except that each repeated dose seemed a little less effective at holding him under.

There was pressure, too, from another source; an icy, demanding presence that attempted to mine Virgil's thoughts for information about the island, International Rescue and his family. To distract himself and block that crushing-cold interrogator, Virgil began humming aloud.

Not classical music, either, but anything he could recall with an annoying hook and offensive lyrics. _"You don't have to call me Darlin',"_ and _"I'm Henry the Eighth, I am,"_ worked especially well. After that, as the presence grew fainter (busy elsewhere?) Virgil switched to _"This is the Song That Never Ends,"_ singing it over and over in his head, until his skull fairly rattled. But at the same time, under cover of all that noisy music, the captured pilot began to think about escape.

* * *

_Someplace otherwhere, still; cast away to a cold northern forest-_

Files were updated, links reformed, data exchanged and refreshed. Then, at a time tangentially related to events on the Earth of John Tracy, something happened in Midworld.

A wounded young man was ejected from Faerie, back to the bleak mortal plane. He arrived rather violently, tumbling several times before fetching up against the trunk of a bare-limbed, sky-clawing ash tree.

Sleet hissed down from a leaden sky like whispered curses, alternating with patches of pale, wandering sunlight, but the red-haired young man did not move; being too confused and battered to stir himself. Instead, he lay propped against the tree upon hard-frozen ground, unarmed and alone. Torn by a loss too deep for words.

At first, only wind and scudding clouds broke the wood's renewed stillness. Then the torpid ash nymph awoke. He could feel her surging beneath rough, greyish bark. Next, with a splintering moan, the trunk split wide at its base, creating for the young man a sawdust-and-moss-cushioned hollow. Other trees… oak, elm and linden… bent themselves sluggishly inward, branches twining overhead as though forming a skeletal roof. Small shrubs twisted and writhed, presenting their last withered berries. A nearby streamlet (quiet till then) ran suddenly stronger.

As though ordered off, the sleet betook itself elsewhere, leaving an exhausted and broken-hearted knight to lave his many cuts with icy stream water. Afterward he ate a few dried berries, and then crawled like an animal into the sheltering ash tree. To all who might hear, Gawain whispered,

"Many thanks," before collapsing unconscious.


	17. 17: Reversal

Somewhat edited, but will complete the job once I'm back from watching Percy Jackson. Edited!

**17: Reversal**

_Tracy Island, outdoors, on the jungle cart path-_

Such a shocked and reeling mind made a highly accessible wellspring; open to search and manipulation, if the assailant were quick and skillful enough. Having blasted Gordon Tracy with horrific, surprisingly effective, images, the Hood was able to peer beneath Gordon's surface thoughts to the memories below.

He glimpsed bright yellow Thunderbird 4 in its subsurface launch bay; saw the location of Dr. Hackenbacker's underground lab network, and the hidden hangars of Thunderbirds 1, 2 and 3. More, he learnt how each of the craft might be started and flown (though not by the actions of Sanji, or any other non-Tracy).

Deep inside himself, the possessed Detective-Inspector howled with raw triumph. For here, delivered into his hands, was the means to bring down Jeff Tracy and International Rescue. As golden-haired Alan attempted to revive his brother, "Sanji" affected concern; offering to call their father or drive the cart.

"How dreadful!" he mourned, offering bottled water to pale, shaken Gordon. "Was it the heat, perhaps?"

Alan's head whipped around. He glared at the disguised Hood, blue eyes slitted and fierce.

"Leave him alone!" he snapped. "I don't know what you did, or how, but…"

"You know nothing," the Hood whispered through Sanji, in a voice cold and bleak as the dirt shoveled into a grave. "You recall nothing. Only that your unfortunate brother experienced a brief fainting spell whilst driving the cart."

Caught by his yellow-eyed gaze, Alan could not look away. He could not prevent that icy, probe-wire command from entering his thoughts and burrowing deep. But the Hood did not stop with clouding Alan's memories.

"Tonight, at midnight," he hissed, "you shall steal aboard Thunderbird 3 and launch her in secret, setting a course that will take you entirely out of Earth orbit and away into space. There, you shall disable the ship's guidance and communication systems."

Smiling at the anticipated loss of Thunderbird 3, Belaghant next turned to Gordon. The shuddering swimmer was still deep in the clutches of bloody-edged nightmare, and terrible simple to command.

"At midnight, you, too, shall creep away your quarters, making certain to remain undetected. Then you shall access and launch Thunderbird 4, proceeding one hundred miles offshore, where you shall open her hatches and flood the tanks, sending her to the bottom."

The command wormed in and bit deep; transcending the young man's instinct and will power, while leaving no outward trace of compulsion. Like Alan, he'd been programmed to destroy himself and his 'Bird, while no one else knew, or could save them.

* * *

_Elsewhere, trapped in a cold, distant room-_

That the place was deserted, Virgil figured out pretty quickly. For one thing, no one came to check on his condition or adjust the faltering meds. For another, his noisy attempts to wriggle loose brought in no guards and set off no alarms. Stranger still, even the presence in his head seemed to fade.

As soon as his muscles would answer the helm, Virgil began trying to rock himself from side to side. The motion started out very small and weak, gradually building to a bed-shaking, screechy sway. He grew exhausted, and friction with what felt like a set of heavy leather cuffs hurt his wrists and ankles, but Virgil kept heaving himself to and fro.

His bed clattered and rang against the floor, making a noise like a train-wreck. Noise which should have brought somebody running… had there been anyone present in condition to hear it.

Eventually, the needle worked free of his numbed arm, and the tired pilot almost lost consciousness. He spiked himself awake with thoughts of his family, because even more than revenge for the pain and shock of his (probable) kidnapping, Virgil wanted to see them again.

So, he twisted, jerked and tugged, pulling with all the strength of a determined former football player. Scraped himself bloody and dislocated a thumb in the process, but managed to rip free of the cuffs. Hands like pieces of frozen meat next fumbled for his blindfold and gag, tearing them away (literally, for he'd been duct-taped sightless and silent). The tape stung as he yanked it loose, taking layers of skin and bits of one eyebrow.

Light flared like a nuclear sunburst when Virgil was finally able to open his eyes. Blinking, he saw a small and sparsely-furnished, concrete-walled room. A single bulb burned above him on the ceiling, revealing a latched steel door and a brown metal chair. In the chair slumped a large, dark-haired man; head drooping against his tan-uniformed chest and arms limply trailing the floor. The sight gave him a nasty start, until Virgil realized that the empty, slack fellow was in some sort of coma. No telling how long, though.

Bracing himself for the effort, Virgil next managed to sit up, eyes never leaving the form of his unresponsive cellmate. It was at this point that Virgil's run of good luck ended. The leather ankle cuffs were locked shut, and he couldn't yank his feet through as he had done with his hands. Nor was there any key in evidence for the cuff's brass padlocks. As the manacles were firmly attached with slender steel cable to the bed frame, there was no way he could simply remove them.

Virgil made a frustrated sound halfway between a growl and a sob, but refused to quit trying. There was always, _always_ a plan B… and after that C and D, because it wasn't in any Tracy to just give up and roll over.

Well, he thought, if he could just get the bed tipped over onto its side, he might be able to drag it across the floor to the unconscious guard for a quick pocket search. Worth a try, anyway.

Flopping onto the concrete floor like a salmon was going to hurt, and he knew it, but mental preparation was half the battle, and nobody lives forever. Like jumping into the deep end back in Kansas; one, two and over with.

Hurriedly, then, Virgil lowered the chrome bedrail and got to work. Taking hold of the sides, he forced the bed to shudder and tip. Once more, metal legs clanged against concrete. Springs creaked wildly. Once again, his head swam with the violent, sustained motion.

Virgil got the steel bed swaying from side to side, and then hurled himself off the thin mattress and onto a rock-hard floor. It was then that the guard gave a convulsive twitch and sprang to sudden, yellow-eyed life. It was then that he stood up and drew his gun.

* * *

_Midworld, in early winter, deep in the forest of Inglewood-_

A geas had been laid upon him which he could neither speak of nor break. Like a coiled serpent, it afforded the knight no relief; troubling his thoughts even in restless sleep. Scarcely a handful of hours he lay in the hollowed ash tree, like a loaded and cocked cross bow temporarily set aside.

So he woke, to face that which could not be avoided. It was just turned evening, raw and cold, when compulsion forced Gawain out of his shelter once more. He climbed from the hollow, taking his leave of the nymph with a few murmured words, just as though nothing whatever was wrong.

The limbs of her tree creaked and bent slightly westward, then, directing the knight's attention to something dark which had been draped and propped on a spreading holly bush, many yards away. Though the direction was wrong (and thus hard to move in) Gawain crossed the snowy ground to see what it was that Midworld had brought him.

A hauberk of fine links, supple as cloth, was hung on the thorny plant. Greaves, gorget, helmet and gauntlets, as well; Elven in style, though not matching precisely. Hanging suspended from the very top of the glossy green shrub was a sword with its scabbard and belt. Ancient gear; most likely lost in battle or cast away in lake or tarn as an offering.

Feeling icy cold and numbed, inside, Gawain fetched down the blade and unsheathed it, revealing a full yard-and-a-half of ringing, magickally tempered steel.

…metal he'd have used on himself, if he could have. But the escape of death was denied him. For Sir Gawain had a message to deliver, written with blade's edge and flaming arrow.


	18. 18: Survival

Thanks for the kind reviews, Eternal Density, Mitzy and Tikatu. I promise to answer them, soon. Lots going on, including work, sports and Disney World... Thanks, too, for the "Happily Ever After" reference, Tikatu! I couldn't resist using it. =)

**18: Survival**

_In a small, locked room, somewhere quite far from home-_

Virgil crashed to the hard concrete floor, tipping his metal bed with a very loud and resonant _CLANG._ The uniformed guardsman vaulted to his feet at the same time, reaching for a holstered pistol.

Muscles weak and cramped from prolonged inactivity betrayed him, though, causing the guard to stumble. He flailed wildly for an instant, losing his grip on the gun, which sailed across the room, hit a wall and fired. A ringing crack and the nose-searing stench of burnt gunpowder added their bit of confusion and chaos.

Virgil covered the back of his neck with both hands, protecting himself as best he could from flying concrete chips. Struck by his own bullet, meanwhile, the other man gave a short cry and then fell silent.

Then, because he couldn't afford _not_ to act, Virgil opened his brown eyes, saw the crumpled, bleeding gunman just a few feet away, and began to move. His position was awkward, the metal bed difficult to drag across all that cold concrete. But Virgil managed, anyhow. He powered forward, praying that the shrill, sparking screech of steel on cement wouldn't summon more guards.

His heart was thudding about a hundred miles an hour and his throat felt as dry and hot as a blowtorch by the time Virgil reached the unconscious watchman. Keys… there had to be keys somewhere, because if not, he was finished.

Hurriedly, Virgil rifled the man's uniform pockets, coming up with a black Moleskine notebook, a badly chewed pencil stub, and (finally) the keys to his padlocked fetters.

Before freeing himself, though, Virgil got the man's jacket off; folding it to serve as a pillow for the guard's sluggishly bleeding head. Foolish, maybe, but he wouldn't have been Virgil Tracy if he hadn't stopped to help out. Only then did the kidnapped pilot return to his own troubles.

There were three freshly-cut brass keys on the steel key-ring. Virgil dropped them jangling twice, trying to twist around and fumble the bits of metal into his cuff padlocks. Stiff, cramped fingers wouldn't move very well.

The first and second keys didn't fit, but the third one did the trick, allowing Virgil Tracy to unbuckle his cuffs, kick free and stand up. _So much, _he figured, _for the easy part._

* * *

_Tracy Island, at about the same time-_

Alan drove almost without conscious awareness, steering the electric cart back along the shady jungle trail with his semi-conscious brother in the back seat and a smug Detective-Inspector Sanji riding shotgun.

But something important had happened. His head hurt, for one thing, though Alan could not for the life of him figure out why. All he knew was that he had to get back to the house; driving at unsafe speeds along a twisting, light-spattered gravel track.

Then Sanji stiffened and jerked as though someone had hit him with a high-powered taser. Before Alan could do more than slam on the brakes, he slumped like a toy with no batteries; slack-jawed and empty-eyed.

"Hey," Alan whispered, reaching over to give the man a quick shake. "You all right? Detective?"

No use. Sanji had gone utterly limp, and as senseless as the crew of Virgil's last flight. Alan shifted the man so he wasn't leaning so hard on the passenger door. No sense having the detective-inspector flop out, especially when he might have part of the answer to Virgil's disappearance.

"You too, huh?" he muttered, thinking of Gordon's mysterious brown-out. "There's been a lot of that going around, lately."

Shoving Sanji into the safest possible position, Alan next stomped on the cart's accelerator pedal; flooring it like he was racing the Indy 500. At the same time, bumping and clattering over up-thrust tree roots and half-buried palm logs, the young man reached for his cell phone.

* * *

_Tracy Island, below the mansion-_

Back in his lab, meanwhile, Dr. Hackenbacker had commenced work on the wildest of goose chases: finding a way to block "mental energy". His basically skeptical nature recoiled from the very idea of psychic phenomena, yet… clearly _something_ had happened to the crew of that plane, and to Virgil's initial kidnappers.

The question was: _what?_ And how could such a mind-stripping disaster be prevented from striking again? The engineer paced and he fidgeted, running both hands through his lank brown hair. Unlike John, who was always very still while thinking, Hackenbacker needed to move, and usually made quite a mess.

While his friend tapped quietly away at a keyboard in the far corner of Lab 24C, Brains at last came up with a notion. Belaghant was Kyrano's brother, wasn't he? And TinTin's uncle? Assuming they shared certain traits and (possibly latent) abilities, why not run a few tests on the cook and his daughter, in order to learn about Virgil's suspected attacker?

"What do, ah… do you think?" Brains asked, after presenting the notion to John. "Will Jeff agree t- to having experiments performed on, ah… on Kyrano and TinTin?"

John glanced away from his computer screen, frowning slightly.

"At this point, he'd probably say yes to exorcism and crystal-hanging," the astronaut told him. "Might draw the line at flinging virgins into the volcano, though."

Hackenbacker snorted, giving his slender blond friend a wry smile.

"Very funny. Unless I can put this madness on some sort of empirical, scientific footing," he grumped, "I might as well be shaking beads and rattles and sprinkling ox-blood!"

John shifted position in his creaking workstation seat, grunting as several sets of cramped muscles slowly unlocked. Ignoring a flashing blue cursor and half-finished code, he said,

"Assume it's an energy field, Ike; one only a few people can detect and manipulate… with some being more susceptible to its effects than others, the way only certain metals respond to a magnet. Not impossible, is it?"

Hackenbacker stuffed both hands in the pockets of his rumpled lab coat and shrugged noncommittally. Added John,

"So set up a network of broad-spectrum sensors… every kind you've ever heard of, or imagined, and then get Kyrano and TinTin down here and… I dunno… tell them to bend spoons, or something. When the lights and gauges flash, you've got your "mystic energy". Slam, bam, thank you, Ma'am."

Brains shook his head sadly.

"I'd rather go, ah… go hunting the Higgs Boson w- with a butterfly net," he said. "Or keep w- working on that Earth-scan of, ah… of yours."

"I'd rather find my brother," John replied in a conversation-ending tone, turning back to the keyboard and screen. He was just about to resume coding when the wall phone rang, close by his skinny left shoulder. Muttering at this renewed interruption, the frustrated coder leaned over and picked up.

"John Tracy, go ahead," he snapped. Then, "Alan…? Yeah… right… okay, listen: I need you to slow down and start from the beginning."

* * *

_Midworld, in cold-shriveled, leafless wood-_

Sir Gawain armed himself, and then set off uncomfortably afoot. Armor was a difficult enough thing to bear for long periods of time while mounted. Walking through a trackless forest… Well, he was less of a knight than a noisy, clattering scrap heap.

Nor was his armor complete, though the nymphs, sprites and trees contrived to add bits here and there, by dredging tarns and robbing barrows. They produced nothing cursed, thankfully, although strong wild magick clung to the breastplate and spear he'd found propped on the trunk of a giant oak.

Food was brought, too; sometimes by hawk or shy vixen, sometimes by chattering squirrel. Sleep he took when the geas and nightmares allowed, sitting up in the dark before a small fire.

Traveling laced and harnessed in patchwork armor, with a sullenly glowing spear over one shoulder, Gawain tramped south. He tried not to think or remember (hard to do around the geas, anyway), but kept moving; passing areas of the forest black and blighted with frost, and scattered ponds frozen clear through to their bottoms. What he could, he set right. The rest he passed grimly by, forced ever onward by magick.

Three days after setting forth, he heard something that pulled him up short and sharp. A sort of stamping, blowing scream, as if a nearby horse were struggling to free itself. Gawain halted in the midst of a bleak clearing, listening hard.

Moving any direction but south required a tremendous act of will power. Yet… he very much needed a mount. Surely, they realized this? Steeling himself, the red-haired knight turned eastward, following the sounds of an exhausted and terrified horse.

He had to force each step, muttering the power words of a Cross-Knight and paladin to keep himself going. Tracing sigils, too, with his fingers against the palm of one half-curled hand. Resistance built like a wall with each dragging step, but at last the trapped animal came into view. A horse it was, indeed. A white, shaggy destrier in tattered finery; rearing and plunging in a thicket of whipping, strangling thorn-weed. The only live greenery for miles.

Releasing its grip in the face of real danger, the geas faded slightly. Gawain at once drew his sword and sprinted to free the white horse, which already had several sapper vines drilling its bloodied flanks and strong back. Those green-black, dripping vines felt his approach and swerved to face him, swaying and rearing like a nest of blind serpents.

They struck like serpents, too: trying to wind themselves about the knight's booted feet and mailed legs. He reacted swiftly, springing and dodging to avoid being tripped up, while other vines rattled and lashed at chest and head. Not having a shield, Gawain thrust aside his spear and reached for the next best thing.

Hastily, he took up a fallen branch to fend off attack, while slashing about with his sword. The horse fought, as well, seeming heartened by Gawain's arrival. Bits of vine and stinging sap and hot blood rained to the frozen ground around them. The horse stamped with both trencher-sized forehooves and snapped with its teeth, while Gawain chopped, clubbed and hacked, fighting his way to the animal's side.

Using a frost-blasted stump, he managed to vault onto the destrier's blood-slick back. Muscles bunching like boulders, it reared up at once, pawing the air and nearly throwing him. Gawain clung fast, speaking soothingly; letting his voice reach its flattened ears and panicked brain.

"Courage," he said to the frantic animal. "A moment more, and we're safe away."

The horse gave vent to a bugling scream, but accepted him, allowing the knight to turn his attention to freeing them both. He fought without thinking, igniting the branch with a word of power, and then laying about himself with sword and torch as though facing a hydra. Drill-pointed tendrils struck at man and horse, plunging for the life and warm flesh they sensed in their midst. Some Gawain burnt or beat aside, some he cut in half, but a few got past his guard; stinging deep to drain blood. Twisting free, the knight battled on with roaring torch and slashing edge, as desperately as he had in Faerie, that very last time.

When most of the truncated, smoldering vines sagged to the spattered ground, Gawain gave a quick double tap with his knees, urging his mount forward. No reins, but his hands were full, anyhow, so he clung as best he could. The rescued horse plunged free of blazing thorn-weed and away through the icy forest; ears back, eyes wide, mouth open.

Gawain dropped the torch and ducked flying branches, clinging close to the animal's neck to avoid being scraped off. When most of its fear was safely run out, he hauled on its tangled mane, stopping them short by a hard-frozen stream. He'd just got his sword sheathed and the winded beast settled down when,

"Back again," spoke a familiar, rather disinterested voice. "Figures. I _told_ you there's nothing a hero hates worse than happily ever after."

Gawain turned his upper body to face the source of that stinging comment. Meant to, rather. What he actually did was fall off the horse. Which, just then, was a very long drop.


	19. 19: Signal Strength

Phew! Late, _and_ long! Thanks for reviewing, Sam, Tikatu, Mitzy, ED and Silver Bee. I am very grateful for the input. =) Edited.

**19: Signal Strength**

_Tracy Island, in Dr. Hackenbacker's underground lab complex-_

Using a quiver full of strategies, John did two things at once. First, he set up an array of bots and commands, all of them buried in devious English shell code. Bulk email alerts were sent forth by the hundreds of millions, attuning any device with wireless access to listen for mention of Virgil Tracy (or other high-profile kidnap victim). Any bit of data which fit John's coded parameters, or which confused the machines sufficiently, was to be forwarded directly to Tracy Island.

The second thing he did was to secretly link most of Earth's mainframes, smart phones and private computers, forming a more sensitive detection network and a faster computerized brain. Also, quite unconsciously, creating a stable platform for Five. Unconscious on _his_ part, at any rate.

At the back of his mind, as he tapped away at the keyboard, was Alan's situation; for the youngest-Tracy-but-one was coming in hot, closely monitored by Jeff and Brains. At the former's suggestion, Alan swung his electric cart sharply around. The change in plan brought him not to the cart's usual recharge station, but out to the lab complex loading ramp; a hidden entrance through which most of the supplies Hackenbacker required reached his workplace.

Meant to be used by robot trucks, the route dwarfed Alan's small cart and limp passengers, but it had the benefit of near-total security. Space-age metals, strange fuels and high-test plastics could be brought in that way without being seen from the house, and so could Detective-Inspector Sanji… or whatever was left of him.

As Alan zipped off the main track and through an electronically retracted box hedge, he glanced frequently at Gordon and the unconscious detective. Both were out of it; one confused and deeply groggy, the other as unresponsive as a sack of frozen toads.

Alan could afford to pay less attention to his driving now, because the gravel track had given way to a broad, cammo-painted road. The jungle had been encouraged to grow wild hereabouts, and there was pierced, leaf-like green netting draped overhead, adding to his cover. A genuine robot cargo truck would have come from the cliff-side hangar or underwater loading dock, but Alan had taken a shortcut, hopping directly across from the cart path.

He drove along the road at top speed (a blistering 35 miles per hour), proceeding down a long ramp to a set of locked and warded doors. Here he slowed the cart, waiting while dozens of artificial vines were reeled away, and the big metal doors hissed apart. Then he stomped on the cart's accelerator pedal, zipping from late afternoon sunshine to the cold, pale gleam of wall-mounted LEDs.

The doors closed behind him with scarcely a whisper, leaving Alan to negotiate an echoing cavern of grey cement, polished steel and stacked plastic crates. His cart's whine was much louder, here. Worse, a flood of weird chemical smells struck him all at once, triggering a bout of explosive sneezing.

He might have got lost in this high-piled warren of crates, had John not reprogrammed the floor's "this way" strips to beckon him onward. Every ten feet or so, a bright green fiber-optic arrow would flash, directing Alan through the warehouse sector and into the lab proper.

Brains and John met him at the door to the medical testing area with a couple of antigrav stretchers in tow. Together (after a quick greeting and med-scan) they got Gordon and Sanji loaded onto the floating platforms and into the lab.

"You okay?" John asked Gordon, while guiding his brother's stretcher. He didn't look well, but for that matter, neither did Alan. "Speed Racer, over there, says you passed out while driving the cart."

"Just tired, Coach," the red-head replied, evidently very confused. "Give me a second to catch my breath, and I'm back in the pool."

"Sure," said John, cocking a blond eyebrow. "Another dose of chlorine, sun-stroke and oxygen deprivation is _exactly_ what you need. Shut up and go to sleep, Gordon. Your brain cell is tired."

On the other hand, Hackenbacker was having no luck at all with Detective-Inspector Sanji, who appeared to be utterly mind-wiped. Refusing to back down, Brains hooked the man up to every sensor he had, in rapid succession. None of them showed any higher mental activity, whatever. Just the lingering traces of something very strong and malignant. Concerned, Brains hit the comm, using a tightly encrypted line to reach his employer.

"J- Jeff," he said, plucking at his glasses and lab coat, "S- Sanji is, ah… is only alive in th- the physical sense. He, ah… He has apparently been reduced to a vegetative state, by means unknown."

Before him on the big wall screen, Jeff Tracy's image frowned darkly.

_"The same way that Virgil's kidnappers were blasted… and with an equally grim prognosis for recovery,"_ he mused. The image-Jeff ran a big hand through his iron-grey hair; brown eyes narrowed with frustrated tension.

_"What about Gordon?"_ he asked, squinting past Hackenbacker at the busy figures of Alan and John.

"Conscious, but, ah… but disoriented," the engineer told him, gesturing toward the other scan station. "J- John and Alan are, ah… are attending to him, at th- the moment, Jeff."

The elder Tracy nodded, looking weirdly isolated against an encrypted background of snowy static.

_"Keep an eye on the boys for me, Brains, and make arrangements to have Sanji moved to the house. I need him… and his comrades… off my island, ASAP. If… and it seems likely… the Hood wiped Sanji, maybe he was also controlling him; using the detective as cover to sniff around for possible links to I.R."_

Hackenbacker's usual artificial-light pallor grew visibly less healthy as Jeff's statement struck home.

"Th- That would be, ah… be very bad news, Jeff."

Again, Tracy's image nodded worriedly.

_"Which is exactly why I want him gone, and that mental defense system of yours up and running as quickly as possible, Brains."_

The engineer paused a moment. Then, removing his hands from the pockets of his lab coat and smoothing the rumpled white garment, he said,

"Please call me Ike or Dwight, Jeff. At least here, I w- would rather not, ah… not hide who I am any longer."

Jeff looked surprised, but said,

_"Ike it is, then… and I'm glad to know you by any name or alias that suits you, Ike… but I'll probably still slip up and call you Brains, from time to time."_

Then, as his paper-thin smile re-submerged beneath an ocean of stresses, Jeff added,

_"Let's get Sanji back to his partners and airlifted to a hospital on the mainland, before the Hood takes over again, or we're forced by the presence of guests to sit out an alert. We've been lucky so far, but I don't want to push it."_

"Y- Yes, Sir," Brains responded. "I'll get, ah… get right on it."

What neither man knew was that their activity was already too late, for Belaghant had recovered from the shock of his tool's gun-shot wound. He was already making his move.

Sanji and the guard were compromised hosts, having been discovered, or physically injured. The Hood had many such tools, however; men and women in positions of power and responsibility whose minds he had partially opened well in advance. These could be subtly influenced or seized entirely, at his will.

So, temporarily driven from Tracy Island, Belaghant put forth his essence and took hold of one Damiano Colon, a high-ranking technician at Brazil's main microwave power receiving station. Located in the jungle just seventy miles from Rio de Janeiro, this station collected the mighty beam of microwave radiation directed Earthward by Sol-Sat 3, an orbiting generator.

Damiano Colon, known to most as a hard-working family man, was also a secret gambler, and heavily in debt. Or, he had been. But once he'd followed up on whispered phone calls and met with the yellow-eyed woman, money had come, in quantities great enough to cover his debts and leave Sr. Colon very comfortable, indeed. Except that shortcuts are rarely easy, and the tastiest bait can hide a sharp hook. In taking that money and shaking the strange woman's hand, Damiano (tall, athletic, dark-skinned and merry) had opened his mind to the Hood.

Now, the bill came due. His last conscious thought was of his son's up-coming soccer match, not of work or the orbital solar generator which he'd programmed and directed throughout these long weeks and years. Between one breath and the next, as Damiano checked readouts and dreamt of his son's victory, Belaghant slipped like a dagger into his mind. Then, with a brief, vicious thought, he snuffed the man's conscious existence beyond hope of retrieval.

Though no one in the receiving station's tech center noticed, it was not Damiano Colon, but the Hood who altered programming on Sol-Sat 3. With a few swift keystrokes (gleamed earlier from Colon's idle thoughts) he ramped up the generator's microwave ray, and then redirected it.

Hundreds of miles above Brazil, in the searing bright glare of high orbit, an obedient solar generator accepted the new commands and disabled its own antenna. Now, it could not be communicated with, nor shut off from Earth. Following Belaghant's instructions, the deafened satellite next altered the path of its microwave beam, sending a scalding, bird-and-beast-exploding ray of intense power on a broad, killing swath toward Rio de Janeiro.

* * *

_Meanwhile, in a small, locked room with an unconscious and emptied guard-_

His hands were stiff, and one thumb dislocated, making it hard to handle keys. Took several tries, but eventually, Virgil Tracy fumbled the right piece of brass into the door lock and forced it to turn.

So far, so good, though there was no telling what lay on the other side of that grey metal portal. More gunmen? A dead-end or booby-trap? There was no way he could tell without opening the door, because he could not hear a thing beyond it.

In his head, Virgil began playing "_Stars and Stripes Forever"_ to hearten himself. He'd dressed as best he could, with ill-fitting clothes taken from the downed guard. Of course, the tan shirt wouldn't button past his waist, nor the pants fully zip, but the stolen outfit was better than sneaking around in a bloodied tee-shirt and underwear. Still left him plenty vulnerable, though, even with the guy's weapon, notebook and keys in hand.

Virgil hadn't bothered at all with the guard's too-narrow shoes, but nerved himself to handle whatever lay ahead; easing open the heavy cold door. That his cell was sound-proofed became immediately obvious. As soon as the first tentative crack appeared, Virgil heard the sort of muted bustle and clatter he associated with a busy restaurant. Faint food smells came to him, too, rich with the hint of roasting meat and exotic spices.

His cramped, empty stomach woke up at once and set up a traitorously loud rumble. Virgil shifted position to clamp an arm against his middle, hoping that by squeezing his stomach, he could fool it into silence. _Stars and Stripes Forever_ gave way to _"Food, Glorious Food,"_ as the battered young pilot pushed the door a bit further open, peering out into a sort of basement storeroom packed with restaurant-sized bags and boxes of rice, beans, peppers and oil.

Overhead, wooden floorboards creaked and instruments blared. Voices shouted roughly, or sang along to the music. Down in the earthen-floored basement, though, he had no other company but a furtive, scurrying rat.

He was shaking inside, whether from weakness, tension or hunger, Virgil couldn't have said; all three, maybe. Anyhow, he slipped out of his cell, and then relocked the door behind himself, just in case anyone came down for supplies or to check on their prisoner. A sudden giddiness swept him, then, because he'd escaped, even if only to rats and dirt flooring.

"A little help?" he muttered, to God or the universe, whichever felt like rolling up their figurative sleeves and pitching in. Then, trying not to stumble against all of that food-stacked wood shelving, Virgil began looking for a way out.

* * *

_Tracy Island-_

Jeff Tracy owned Kanaho, and held more or less absolute sway there. Naturally, the laws of local and world authorities restricted his doings somewhat, but neither could stop him from at last ordering every agent, police officer and minor official the h-ll off his property. He'd given them almost a week, the man announced, while they poked around and his kidnapped son remained lost.

"You've had plenty of time," Jeff told them, in person and over the comm. "You've combed every inch of this island, opened my personal files and interviewed my family and staff. Enough is more than enough, people. I'm grateful for your interest and efforts, but now an experienced detective has been attacked by whatever force took my son. Mister Sanji needs immediate medical assistance, and I don't want any more victims. You need to leave. _Now._ I'm not requesting, I'm telling you. _Go."_

Some of the hardier Interpol agents were disinclined to follow Jeff Tracy's directive, but they'd spent too many fruitless days on the island already, and their departments wanted them back. Jeff and Scott bade a tense farewell to the last of them around nine o'clock that evening; watching from the roundhouse as the final helijet faded from guttural roar and bright glare to whispering engines and faint, winking running lights.

Both men were exhausted; keyed-up, worried and headache-y. Neither expected to sleep that night. Both collapsed into bed like they'd been cold-cocked, Scott alone, Jeff with an equally tired Lucy. John fell asleep at his work station (again), dreaming of lost wives and unborn daughters.

Brains had intended to stay up, but he stretched out on a med-scan bed for just a few moments… meaning to rest his eyes… and drifted right off. Kyrano was in another part of the house, plunged deep in the therapy of tidying up; too busy thinking of Hackenbacker's planned experiments to notice much else. TinTin lay in her room, meanwhile, clutching a blue teddy bear and whimpering in her sleep.

And so, between one thing and another, nobody noticed when Gordon and Alan rose from their beds and went to the hangars of Thunderbirds 4 and 3. Not until a shrill, blaring choir of sirens erupted, did anyone realize that two unauthorized launches were taking place. By that time, the gleaming red pillar of Thunderbird 3 was already roaring away, and Thunderbird 4, swift as a shark, had slipped far into darkness and depth.

And somewhere else, safely removed from all the trouble he'd sparked, the Hood sat back and smiled.

* * *

_In another place, altogether, partly controlled by the wiles of a gaming computer-_

Gawain awoke, as sore as he'd been after his very first encounter with the tilting quintain and (subsequently) the ground. Flat on his back in full armor, staring up at a leaden sky through the visor of an ill-fitting helmet, he felt just as windless and beaten as he had then. A touch more humiliated, perhaps.

Then, someone unlaced and yanked off his helmet, and Gawain recalled that he wasn't alone. Half expecting the cold slice of a dagger's edge, he tried to sit upright. But someone held him flat, as a heavy, rumbling voice said,

"Rest, friend Gawain. You've taken hurt from the fall, I think."

The knight looked around. A lumpy and misshapen half-orc, ugly as a basilisk's rump, swam into view. Behind him, rather waver-y and indistinct, stood an anxious young scholar. The learned halfling was paging rapidly through a large tome; muttering healing spells as fast as wit and tongue would allow. Off to one side, atop a half buried boulder, a dark elf looked scornfully down on the doings of his comrades.

"Let him be," said the pale-haired elf, with as much concern as he'd have shown for a squashed insect. "Human knights are bred to endure a few falls... various burnings, stab wounds, crushing, dismemberment, drowning, starvation, curses…"

"Enough!" Gawain snapped, shoving Glud's hand aside and rising to a seated posture. "Shut y'r noise before I forget the bonds of friendship, elf, and send you blazing back t' y'r kinfolk."

Drehn smiled slightly and rose from his crouch atop the quartz and mica boulder.

"As if you could," he mocked. "The shape you're in, Sir Knight, I'd have more to fear from a newly-hatched mossling."

The orc's head swiveled to regard his slim, icy friend. Blue eyes very grave, he said,

"They bite, you know. Mosslings, that is… and they itch fiercer than sand fleas, too."

Drehn was not at all impressed. Over the sound of a fretfully weaving wind and nervous horses, he said,

"So after the fight I'll think of him often, whilst scratching."

Then, springing gracefully off of his perch and onto the frozen ground, Drehn came closer.

"By the by," he said, watching as Gawain accepted a conjured drink from young Frodle, the halfling, "What became of your moustache and chin fuzz? I thought that extravagant facial adornment was your highest goal and ambition."

Gawain paused in mid-swallow, wasting a mouthful of rich, exotic ale. Handing the flask back to Frodle, he stripped a gauntlet and felt at his face, only to find that Drehn was right; his upper lip and chin had gone smooth as a child's.

Then, unable to believe the tale told by his own questing fingers, the mortified paladin conjured a mirror.

"Holy Fire," he murmured, staring at his reflection. "How in the name of Five Sigils did…?"

"You might have been gelded," suggested Glud, not very helpfully. "That happened to my great-grandsire, Vork, after he'd visited the wrong goodwife, one time too often."

"It's possible," Drehn mused, doubtfully, "Although geldings usually turn chubby and affectionate."

_"I am a whole man, still!"_ roared Gawain, bolting to his feet, all at a clattering rush, _"as I'll prove with sword and spear on th' body of anyone who dares t' contest th' matter!"_

"No," said the dark elf, shaking his head, "not at all affectionate… but twenty-and-one years in Faerie have been known to do strange things to a mortal or elven "guest". Up to, and including, the loss of a few cherished physical traits."

An entire score of years…? Gawain's muscles unknotted, thew by kinked thew, as a thought worked its way through his angry and spell-fogged brain.

"Twenty-and-one years?" he repeated, sagging a bit in his sorry, piecemeal armor.

"Yes, indeed," Frodle assured him, nodding vigorously. No longer waver-y at all, the halfling seemed somehow taller and stronger than Gawain recalled. "That would be the usual length of a vanishing, if the lost one is not returned within seven, that is. We looked for you then, too."

_"They_ looked," scoffed the elf, offering Gawain a cake of fragrant way-bread. "I went along just to point and laugh. Spent many cold, wenchless evenings for my trouble, too; wishing that either the day or the Knight would come."

"You ventured here looking for me?" Gawain asked, once he'd eaten and drunk a little, and gotten better control of himself.

"Certainly!" blurted Glud.

"No," said Drehn, wandering off to check on the horses.

"Partly," Frodle explained, peering up into Gawain's face. The paladin, he noticed, was avoiding eye-contact, even when lightly spelled to not look away.

"We are also off on a true fool's errand, Gawain, because Glud's brother has been taken by slavers, and because the Council of the Wise at Rhys is fully prepared to sit and argue while the world ends in darkness and ice."

The Council at Rhys… something stirred within Sir Gawain at those words, and he took a few involuntary, clumsy steps southward. South, toward the shining city and its wall of unbreakable glass. Toward the ancient high king and his scheming heiress. This, too, Frodle noticed, scowling slightly.

"Halt!" he commanded, drawing signs of power in midair. Then, eyes big and dark with sudden concern, the young halfling said,

"Friend elf, come here, if you would, and look with true sight upon Sir Gawain. Tell me what you see."

Drehn shrugged. With a great show of reluctance, the tall elf left off fussing with his mare and the packhorses to slouch forward. Standing before Gawain, he murmured something in a language that caused the bare trees to bend sharply away from him and Gawain's steed to snort and stomp fearfully.

For what seemed like a mileway, he stared, gradually shedding feigned indifference for a worried frown.

"Well?" prodded the scholar, drawing a thumb across the worn page-ends of his tome. "What to you see?"

"A geas," Drehn replied, almost spitting the words. "And a powerful death-curse, as well. It appears that our missing knight has returned to Midworld with a purpose."

Once more, Frodle nodded. Glud meanwhile took hold of a large grey ferret which had darted from a saddle bag to swarm up his left leg. Placing the bright-eyed animal on his shoulder, he resumed listening to the conversation.

"And how do your people free someone of a geas, friend elf?" asked Frodle.

Drehn glanced at his shorter companion, all mask and mockery stripped clean away.

"They don't," he admitted very quietly. "They just trap and kill their afflicted kinsman, ending the problem at once."

Speaking with great difficulty, for the spell's grip was horribly powerful, Gawain said,

"It would… be a very great… kindness… if you were... to do so, now… elf."

Glud, who besides the ferret was draped all about with bits, bobs and talismans, began taking off his most potent luck-objects and placing them about Gawain's armored neck. (Griffin's claws, Cockatrice stingers, and the like.) Beside him, Frodle muttered an invocation to Knowledge and Wisdom, and then opened at random his tome. But Drehn stared directly into Gawain's eyes; violet into hazel. Then he snapped the long fingers of his left hand and said,

"Recall what was done to you. Overcome the compulsion to silence and forgetfulness, Sir Knight, and reveal how this spell may be lifted."

And suddenly Gawain remembered.


	20. 20: Rescue Attempt

These days, I'm not just late, but spectacularly so. Thanks for reading and reviewing, Sam and Tikatu. It means a lot to me. =) Edited.

**20: Rescue Attempt**

_Tracy Island, at around 9:45-_

Jeff shot out of bed to the sound of shuddering roars and a hooting alarm; up and half-dressed before he was fully awake. Lucy, too, had arisen, looking like a starlit vision, despite all her stress and exhaustion. Not that her husband had time to notice. To the nearest wall comm, Jeff shouted,

"Brains!"

…commanding the house computer system to search for his chief engineer and then route a swift call. Moments later, while Lucy was drawing a comb through her willful blonde hair, and Jeff was still tying his shoes, Brains replied,

_"G- Go ahead, Sir."_

"What's going on? Why are the launch klaxons sounding?"

_"W- We're attempting to, ah… to figure that out right now, Jeff. S- Scott's on his way to the, ah… the office, and J- John is trying to make contact with Thunderbirds 3 and 4."_

3 and 4? Jeff blinked, and then rushed to his bedroom suite's French doors. Sure enough, the fading gold contrail of Thunderbird 3 could still be glimpsed against anthracite skies.

"Where are Alan and Gordon?" he demanded, causing Lucy to pivot away from the mirror, suddenly; her blue eyes wide and alarmed.

It was John who responded, this time, with a NASA technician's intensely dry understatement.

_"They seem to have launched their 'Birds in a moment of confusion, Dad. We'll find out why, just as soon as I make contact."_

Confusion… or influence? Had the Hood somehow reached through the ether and forced the young men to launch?

"Jeff, get them back," Lucy whispered tensely, coming forward to clutch at her husband's bare, goose-fleshed arm. He'd have said something… promised the boys' safe return… but their adopted son, wakened by all the alarms, began shrieking in his crib next door. Jeff was able to do little more than kiss her before Lucy hurried off to comfort the small child. Once she'd gone, he mashed the wall comm's _"general send"_ button, saying,

"John, Scott, drop what you're doing and head for Thunderbird 1. I'll start a launch investigation from this end, and have Brains cover the desk. In the meantime, I'm going to need you to intercept your brothers."

_"Right away, Dad,"_ responded Scott's voice.

The dark-haired pilot met his brother beside Thunderbird 1's launch silo. Both had arrived at a run, and were slightly out of breath. Said Scott, while placing his palm on the hatch-side print scanner,

"Take comm and navigation, John. We've got one shot at this, and no do-overs. Plan A is to head after Alan, while trying like h3ll to contact Gordon… unless you've got a better idea?"

John shook his head, no, at the same time following Scott through the opened hatch and onto Thunderbird 1's boarding gantry. A vast, echoing tube of concrete and polished steel, the silo was dominated by Scott Tracy's silver-white rocket plane. She was a beautiful sight, but neither man was in the mood to pause and admire. Not with one brother kidnapped and two more in almost certain trouble.

They raced across the long scarlet gantry, filling the silo with harsh, ringing footfalls, then on aboard Scott's waiting aircraft. Seating themselves in the cockpit, Scott and John fastened their safety straps and began hitting buttons; the one for emergency launch, the other for contact and scanning.

Thunderbird 1's powerful engines howled to life a few moments later, shaking the silo with volcanic force. Scott was still running systems checks when the pool slid aside above them, freeing him to throttle up and begin his ascent.

Meanwhile, John checked in with the desk, getting launch clearance and last-minute intel. The news wasn't good.

"Neither 'Bird is responding, or altering course. Understood, Base. Tell mom that we're plotting an intercept flight path, and we'll have them back before she knows it."

At least, he very much hoped so. But at the corner of his vision, as Thunderbird 1 roared off through the silo and out into darkness, John thought he saw an odd flickering. It seemed to be coming from the screens and gauges all around him, but never when he looked directly at them. Weird. He didn't say anything to Scott or their father, though, because any suspicion of further trouble would have shut down the mission, possibly dooming Gordon and Alan.

_'Sorry,'_ he announced in his head to that strangely persistent flicker, _'Not receiving. Out to lunch. Closed for repairs.'_

Aloud, the stubborn astronaut called,

"Thunderbird 4, from Thunderbird 1. Come in, Gordon. Repeat: Thunderbird 4, from Thunderbird 1. Come in, please."

But, just like Alan (racing farther away by the second) Gordon did not seem to hear him. Muttered Scott, leveling off and then throttling all the way forward,

"Hang on, guys… we're coming."

* * *

_Elsewhere-_

Virgil Tracy crept through the cobwebby stillness of a restaurant basement, wishing that he had along a knife or a can-opener. He was terribly hungry, and the wooden shelves all around him were piled with food cans, but Virgil hadn't the means or time to get at them; not when his kidnappers might even now be headed down to check on their captive.

As usual, music and color swirled through the young man's mind, triggered by such mundane things as a note-like arrangement of cans on a five-tiered shelf, or the sway of a dozen strings of dried chilies, swinging from hooks in the ceiling. There were rat squeaks, too, and the frequent rush of scurrying paws, but these he paid less attention to, having far more to worry about than rodents.

He had to get out, without being spotted. He needed to locate an unguarded door and slip through, then make his way to a phone; ASA-_now._

…Except that several days in a drugged coma had robbed Virgil Tracy of much of his stamina, forcing him to pause rather often for rest. It was during one of these breaks, tensely crouched at the base of a root bin, that Virgil heard the first wave of screams and confusion. Not just from above, but outside.

* * *

_In a far-off, related, place-_

All at once, the misted bits of drifting memory hauled themselves back together. Misery flared, along with a sense of deep shame and rejection.

They'd come so close to succeeding, Gawain recalled; so very near to placing Anelle on the glimmering throne of Faerie. Close enough to drive her furious, usurping cousin into summoning demonic assistance.

Perhaps Lord Reynard had honestly believed that he could control what he'd conjured; that the portal he'd opened with blood and fire might shortly be closed… but if so, he'd been tragically wrong. Because instead of merely backing him with undead troops and dark magick, the conjured demon-prince took sudden control of palace, army and Reynard, himself.

Anelle, along with her mortal champion and rebel troops, had continued to fight. But the presence of demons changed everything. One battle after another was lost until, surrounded and pushed to the brink of destruction, they faced the end. Everyone might have been killed then, had Sir Gawain not challenged Reynard and his demonic guard to desperate single combat.

He'd done so in secret, meaning to save the would-be queen and her remaining troops. The matter had ended badly, though, for no such bargain was ever quite fair.

White-faced and frantic, Anelle had ordered him not to go forth (very clearly, Gawain remembered this) but he'd done it, anyhow; arming himself and riding out between the two armies on St. George, his destrier. Time and again, with lance couched, shield raised and knees clamped tight to the hurtling charger, he'd thundered to meet an opponent. Across an emerald sward torn by metal-shod hooves and spattered in blood, he'd encountered and felled tens… dozens of foes… Yet the knights of hell kept coming, and there was only one Gawain. Only one St. George.

Reynard faced him last of all, he remembered. They started with lances, and then, when these shattered in battle like matchsticks, switched to their swords. Blows fell like sparking, fiery hail, cracking both shields; ringing edge upon armor until (with a single, hideous stroke) Reynard lunged forward and chopped through the neck of Gawain's horse. The rest of their fight had been short, bloody and bitter.

He recalled falling, struggling to kick free of his dead mount… Then the barbed lance which smashed straight through his armor and body, before he could quite untangle his sword or stand upright. Ought to have been fatal, but wasn't, because Anelle had bespelled him so closely, and because Reynard was minded to toy with his helpless catch.

Anelle's screams, offering anything whatever in return for his life, still tore at the knight's mind and heart. Anything at all, she'd offered... including surrender. Including herself.

Gawain shuddered, returning with little relief to the present. Drehn had been watching the knight closely, frowning as though by will alone he could help to pierce through that storm of blocked memory. Unable to meet the elf's gaze, Gawain lurched off. Nowhere, at first; then back to the thin-flanked white horse he'd earlier rescued.

Murmuring to the nervous beast, he touched and healed its numerous wounds… but Drehn it was who conjured a knee-deep pile of fodder and apples, for Gawain hadn't the strength.

"If you can tell us the source of this geas, friend knight," urged the halfling, coming forward, "I am sure we can find a way to remove it. Glud's mother, the Lady Samara, did much the same thing for Drehn, once. Remember?"

Sir Gawain did not respond, immediately. Instead, he walked round the horse and went on with his healing. The animal's torn flanks mended swiftly, growing firm and unblemished beneath Gawain's hands. When he reached its head once more, the horse raised a grain-dripping muzzle to snuff at his hair, much as St. George had always done by way of greeting and thanks.

There were worse things than death. There was public repudiation, beating and banishment, to begin with… along with the terrible knowledge that his love had promised throne and self to another, all in return for Gawain's survival. There was being forged against his will into a curse and a weapon against an unprepared city.

The red-haired knight made a slight, nervous movement. Then, speaking to his horse's shaggy white shoulder, he said dully,

"The source is demonic. I am to travel to Rhys, seek there an audience with king and council, and then speak a word of greater summoning."

It grew very quiet in the forest, all at once; even the wind seeming to hold its chill breath, and the streams to silence themselves.

"An army will burst forth from the ground, which I am to lead in battle against the knights and defenses of Rhys, destroying all that lives and draws breath."

Drehn uttered a short, sharp whistle. Glud rumbled worriedly, considering whether they'd time to reach his mother's far-off dwelling place. But Frodle, newly confident, asked,

"Friend Gawain… did you accede to this geas? Was it placed upon you as blood-price for something you did or requested?"

The knight shook his head, silently; still gazing intently at horsehair and shifting, slab-like muscles. Not through _his_ request, no.

"Then… look at me, Gawain… by the first laws of Midworld, I declare you innocent, and free of this undeserved curse."

A sudden wind sprang up at these words, bringing down a pattering shower of acorns. The rescued horse whinnied and shook itself, creating a minor snowstorm of flying pale hairs. Something tore and twisted deep within Gawain, meanwhile, loath to be driven away.

"Depart, I say!" the halfling insisted, making signs in the air with his glowing staff.

At first, it seemed that his words and gestures would not work any better than Glud's talismans had. Then Gawain convulsed as though gripped by a fever. Something like a writhing black fog streamed from his body to hover in midair by the shivering horse.

Out the thing was, but still dangerous, so Drehn joined his own power to Frodle's, helping the scholar to banish the awful geas. Together, they sent it screeching back to its author, leaving behind one weary and desolate knight.


	21. 21: Rally

Thanks bunches for reading and reviewing, Sam, Bee and Mitzy. It's always good to get feedback. =) Edited.

**21: Rally**

_Tracy Island, deep in his underground lab complex-_

While Jeff helmed the desk and Scott led a desperate rescue attempt, Brains worked on a still tougher problem: how to block or reverse the Hood's influence; because, almost certainly, that's what had driven Alan and Gordon to launch their 'Birds, late at night and without permission.

Waked from his brief, guilty nap by a banshee chorus of screeching alarms, the engineer summoned Kyrano and TinTin. They arrived soon afterward, ready to do whatever they could. The old servant was wide awake and quite helpful, but his daughter was muzzy with sleep, and so testing her proved somewhat difficult. No matter. Dr. Hackenbacker got the data he needed anyhow, isolating a pattern of resistant brainwaves from his test subject's cranial scans.

"Th- Think of your, ah… your brother or uncle," Brains instructed, speaking to the slim, elegant Asian and his lovely daughter. "Imagine that he is, ah… is here in f- front of you."

_That_ got an immediate response, from Jeff's manservant and TinTin, both. They tensed like deer beneath the scanning machine's sensitive neural nets; blank and startled. Then Kyrano's brainwaves developed a sudden, jagged series of peaks; almost seizure-like, though he did not lose consciousness. Some kind of attempted defense or blockage, maybe? Hitting keys and mumbling aloud, Brains next called up the girl's data.

TinTin's mind responded almost the same way her father's had, showing wild activity in the areas of sensory uptake and conscious control. With little time to consider, Brains set his computers to the task of isolating and then reproducing this reactive, "blocking" energy.

Doing so _had_ to be possible, because human thought patterns were simply a mix of neurochemistry and electrical impulse; a sort of biological base-program. Once identified and singled out from the part of the brain which created them, such patterns could surely be broadcast and amplified.

Tense with the need for hurry, scarcely breathing, Hackenbacker put together a signal drawn from the minds of Kyrano and TinTin; one he hoped would destroy Belaghant's hold, forever.

* * *

_Thunderbird 1, amid engine roar and glimmering view screens-_

The atmosphere faded around them like a daydream, causing stars to burn harder, and Thunderbird 3's exhaust flare to gleam like a vivid white sword. She was pulling farther away, too; blazing for deep space with an utterly unresponsive pilot at the helm. Inside of Thunderbird 1, though, the situation was far more chaotic and noisy.

"Is he awake? Can he hear us?" Scott demanded, risking half their return fuel for a little more speed.

John had finally managed to hack into Thunderbird 3's cockpit scanner. Not lifting his eyes from the flashing instrument panel, he gave his brother a distracted nod.

"Bioscan readings are consistent with a live, active pilot… but his responses and movements are awfully slow. Same with Gordon."

"They're hypnotized, or something," guessed Scott, as he chased Alan's bright-flaring spark. "But there's a way to break through that kind of trance, isn't there? Some kind of code word or something?"

Said John, after hitting Thunderbird 4's call button, and repeating his message again,

"I don't know. I was never good at being hypnotized, remember?"

Scott grunted. Then, getting a risky and possibly hare-brained idea, he said,

"John, in 62 seconds Thunderbird 3 will be out of reach. I can't push T-1 that high. She's not built for spaceflight. So, instead, what if I shoot through Al's engine before he gets out of range, and we tow him back in?"

"Is there fuel enough?" John asked him, looking aside at his rock-profiled brother.

"We might have to glide the last few miles," Scott replied (as though such a thing were possible in the tail-heavy rocket plane).

"Or ditch in the ocean, and swim for it," suggested the pragmatic astronaut. Then, "What the h3ll, why not? Anything's better than just sitting here, helpless. You get started, and I'll call in."

"Talk slow," Scott told him, engaging the forward laser cannon, "Give me thirty seconds head start, just in case dad doesn't go for it."

"No problem. I always feel chatty on night runs."

There were times when you stood back to back with someone you knew absolutely would never fail you; who'd be there to the last, and beyond. This was one of those times, and John Tracy was one of those people.

Scott left the talking to his blond younger brother, took aim on Thunderbird 3's bright exhaust plume, and then tracked a bit higher. At Brains' insistence, all of the brothers knew every inch of circuitry in every 'Bird. They also knew exactly which areas, and what sort of damage, would yield explosion, fire, or simple cut-off.

"Panel 351, about 3 centimeters deep, 24 to the left of her rear power coupling?" Scott asked, finger loose on the trigger, eyes close to the gun-sight. John glanced away, consulting his own internalized aircraft schematics. Then he nodded his head, saying,

"That's affirm, Scott. A strike right there ought to shut 3 down without setting off any unwanted fireworks or pilot roasts."

"Okay, then. Get the tractor beam ready, and start sweet-talking dad. Here goes nothing..."

Scott took a deep breath and then let it out. His finger tightened upon the trigger just a little bit later, at about the same moment that Brains called in with a hasty scheme of his own.

* * *

_Far away, trapped in a gloomy basement and still in deep trouble-_

The noises above him had changed from shouted roistering to startled panic. Heavy footfalls jarred and clattered the wooden ceiling, causing dust to sift down upon Virgil (still tensely crouched within sight of a door).

Scrapes and crashes resounded above, as of chairs tumbling away from their occupants' leap. All the while, muffled screams and shouting reached Virgil's hiding place, causing his muscles to bunch and his head to throb. _Portuguese_, thought the young pilot, though he hadn't completed enough of those language-learning programs to be certain. Not when the speakers were highly agitated and running off, anyway.

A paper sack of dried beans had been gnawed slightly open by rats. All of the noise and confusion caused a small shower of little white beans to rattle forth onto the basement's dirt floor. Virgil took up a handful, dusted them off on his ill-fitting shirt and then put the beans in his mouth and started to crunch.

Didn't taste like much, and probably cost him more energy to eat than he gained in the process, but at that point Virgil didn't much care. Anything… any food at all… was better than his present faint hollowness.

An instant later, still chewing, the escaped pilot had made up his mind. Filling his pockets with hard white beans, Virgil lurched upright, took a better grip on his pistol and summoned the courage to approach that warped wooden door.

* * *

_Midworld, in a dim, frozen corner of Inglewood Forest-_

While a certain young half-orc, brother to Glud and friend (more or less) to everyone present, stumbled along in his chains, those who sought him made plans. _And_ amends.

At Frodle's whispered suggestion, Glud approached Gawain. Though the red-haired knight would not look at him, the half-orc rumbled,

"Friend Gawain, forgive my clumsy speech. No insult was meant by it. The words sometimes outrace my thinking, is all. Will you let me take back what was said, or must we fight? If so, I am ready."

Sir Gawain fingered the hilt of his elven-forged long sword, torn between friendship and pride. The suggestion that he'd been gelded struck deep, especially in light of his defeat and banishment from Faerie. Much had happened to him, between being speared like a fish and returning to Midworld… but not that.

Sighing, because all at once he was more tired and saddened than wrathful, Gawain said,

"If you… and they… will accept my word that I'm yet entire, then I accept y'r apology, Glud."

The knight then nerved himself and looked around at elf, orc and halfling. Drehn had been marshalling spells of peace and forgetfulness. Now, he just shrugged.

"Unlike most of your kind, I've never known you to lie, Gawain. The matter is closed, as far as I'm concerned."

The scholar spoke next. Looking quite serious, he began drawing sigils in the hoof-mired slurry of snow and mud at his feet, tracing shapes with the end of a wooden staff.

"We have too many enemies to quarrel amongst ourselves, my friends. Glud spoke rashly, and is sorry for it. He and I both accept Gawain's word."

The orc nodded vigorously. Meanwhile, the black-masked grey ferret upon his broad shoulder stretched out a whiskery face, sniffing audibly. After a moment, it uttered a sort of bark, whiskers canting forward and nostrils quivering.

"You see?" Frodle told them all, smiling his way through a second mud sigil, "Even our one-time shape changer believes Gawain. Let us forget this small trouble, then, in favor of larger things; such as how we're to find and free Voreig… unblock Allat's powers… and save Midworld from the coming black winter."

Wisely, he did not bring up Gawain's sudden, unhappy arrival. The knight would discuss it in his own time, if he chose to. If not, the halfling, elf and half-orc would remain in ignorance, pleased enough to have found him again. But, as for the misplaced paladin, after a moment's thought, Sir Gawain extended his hand to Glud.

"I accept y'r apology," he said, meeting the creature's very human, wide blue-eyed gaze. Got pulled into a swift, rough embrace and back-pounding, then, because Glud was an orc of mighty emotions. Strong muscles, too.

"It is good to see you again, my friend," said the half-orc, grinning hugely. "Yon elf goes off wenching too much, Allat won't speak anymore, and all Frodle does is study his tome. I've missed you."

Gawain endured the crunching embrace (though his rod-lashed back was still rather sore). But at last he pulled free, saying,

"You've my thanks f'r th' welcome and f'r lifting th' geas, as well. Now... tell me what's happened to Allat and Voreig, and how I can help you t' set matters right."

If Glud's smile had been wide before, it threatened to split his homely grey face, now.

"It's like this…" he began, placing a pan-sized hand upon Gawain's mailed shoulder.


	22. 22: Turnaround

Thanks bunches, Mitzy and Tikatu, for your insights and comments. Will edit straightaway...

**22: Turnaround**

With delicate precision and much shifting of numbers, a powerful quantum entity was able to control the events of one world, linking its doings to a more valuable other, even without the direct assistance of John Tracy.

In frost-blackened Midworld, Gawain listened to the tale of Allat's crippled return and of Voreig, who'd set off on an ill-fated trade venture. Then he scooped up and lifted the squirming grey ferret, holding the creature at eye-level before him.

"And you, Sirrah!" he demanded with feigned severity. "What d' you mean by shirking y'r duties this way? Did I send you back t' do nothing but fill up y'r belly?"

Apparent nonsense. But in the meantime, assisted by the scholar, Gawain worked a subtle un-blocking.

* * *

_Thunderbird 1-_

Scott Tracy's instincts proved dead-on. Their father _didn't_ like the notion of crippling 3, although he couldn't suggest a much better idea. Fortunately, Brains had come up with plan B.

_"J- John, Scott, if you would, ah… would agree to serve as a relay station, I can try broadcasting my, ah… my signal into the cockpits of Thunderbirds 3 and 4. It sh- should trigger sympathetic brain waves and, ah… and w- wake the boys out of their t- trance state."_

Scott looked over at John, his blue eyes narrowed with mounting worry and tension. 15 seconds left until Thunderbird 3 was entirely beyond range. What if Brains' signal didn't succeed? What if it failed to disrupt the Hood's grip, and Alan was utterly lost to them?

"Give it a 5 second try," he muttered to John. "After that, if his plan doesn't work, I'm opening fire."

"Understood," his brother responded, switching channels to receive and amplify the engineer's transmission. Then he passed it onward; out into space and down to the ocean, working miracles of programming to keep the strange bio-signal uncorrupted.

* * *

_Thunderbird 4, in the deep, cold Pacific-_

As though roused from a dream, Gordon Tracy came to himself; not home in his bed, or a dorm room, but clad in jockey shorts and a tee-shirt, at the helm of Thunderbird 4. Familiar smells, sights and noises surrounded him, some of them worrisome. Saltwater and rubber, painted alloy-steel and recycled air were normal enough. Blinking status lights and the hum of 4's straining motors were less so, especially when paired with a "rapid descent" buzzer.

Through the view screen he glimpsed only darkness. No floodlights illuminated the crushing black depths, and he wasn't even strapped in; just seated in the pilot's chair as casually as though watching the TV back home.

There was another noise, too; a sort of scalpel-sharp wavering whine which left Gordon restless and headache-y, but very awake. Directly, he did two things. First, he cut on the Seabird's bright floodlights and pulled at her yoke, heading for the surface. Second, he switched comm channels, meaning to get away from that aggravating, mosquito-like whine.

"Dammit!" Gordon snarled, when the noise wouldn't quit. "Shut up! Scott…? Dad…? Anyone out there receiving this?"

Alarms cut him off, shrill and keen. Looking forward, Gordon saw what very much looked like the end. Thunderbird 4's white-brilliant floodlights played upon the smoldering flanks of a worm-crusted sea mount. Big as Everest, and directly ahead. Naturally.

There are times when your brain shuts down to let instinct take over. Gordon stopped thinking, falling instead into oft-rehearsed survival moves. Just like the simulator, back home. He banked hard left to avoid hitting the undersea mountain, which almost added a very flat Gordon to its collection of wreckage and loss. Thunderbird 4 yawed like an aeroplane, but slower, taking a juddering, crumbling chunk of rock with her as she scraped loudly past.

For a few moments Gordon was gut-clenching scared, then filled with adrenaline and the sheer, savage joy of survival.

"That was fun," he said loudly, just to hear something other than whooping alarms and tumbling rock.

_"Well, I'm glad __you__ enjoyed it,"_ replied John's voice, over the comm. _"On the whole, I'd rather be in bed."_

"Hey, John!" the aquanaut greeted his older brother. "Any idea why I'm out here in my skivvies, trying to commit suicide?"

(Mostly, he meant to be funny, though the post-trauma shakes were starting to set in.)

_"Just a little parting gift from the Hood,"_ John told him, as that whining noise started up again. _"Turn your 'Bird around and head home. We'll tell you all about it in debrief."_

"What about Alan?" Gordon demanded anxiously, digging bare toes into Thunderbird 4's rubber floor pad. "He okay?"

Because something told the young man that he wasn't the only one affected this night; that Detective-Inspector Sanji's odd words had struck his brother, as well.

* * *

_Thunderbird 3-_

Alan gasped. Like he was fighting his way through dense, choking smoke, the pilot battled back to full consciousness. He was rather more disoriented than Gordon at this point, with engine cut-off lights flashing all over the instrument panel of a 'Bird he wasn't supposed to be flying. Not in his PJs and slippers, at least.

A glittering star-field and thin rind of Moon filled Alan's view screen, barely lighting the cockpit. The air shook with a mixed, awful choir of klaxons and beeps, along with this wavering dial-tone thingy.

"Yeah… no," Alan muttered to himself, reaching for the comm switch. "That's got to go, before I bail out and start floating."

His sudden spurt of activity must've triggered something, because all at once the weird, tooth-grinding noise stopped altogether, leaving only a set of alarm lights: engine cut-off, tractor beam… and target lock?

_"Alan?"_ John's voice called over the comm. _"If you're receiving this, don't shut off your comm. That noise triggers some kind of trance-blocking brain action. For safety's sake, I want to keep broadcasting, for awhile."_

"John! What's going on? What am I doing out here? Who shot at me? Why am I still in my PJs? How pissed-off is dad?"

Faced with all of those questions, John gave up in disgust, letting Scott take over.

_"One at a time, Mister,"_ said the former fighter-pilot. _"From the top… A) Trouble with the Hood, B) flying out where no-one can reach you, C) __I__ did, because you took too long to respond to Brains' signal, D) because you were asleep, and E) pretty d-mn pissed, but not at you. Got all that?"_

"Uh…" Nursing a lingering headache, Alan squinted through the view screen at Thunderbird 1. "Sort of. In a Cliff Notes kinda way."

Experimentally, he jabbed a few buttons, but nothing happened.

"Guys… Thanks for the help and all, but how do I start her up again?"

John resumed speaking then, saying,

_"The short answer is: you don't. Just sit back, enjoy the scenery and let Scott tow you on in, with an assist from 3's steering and retro rockets at the major course correction points."_

"How's Gordon?" Alan asked suddenly, rather than attempt to process all that. "He was in the cart with me and Sanji, and he wasn't looking so hot, last time I…"

_"Alive, well and headed for home,"_ his red-haired brother cut in, with an audible grin to his voice. _"The Hood took another shot and missed, Al. Too bad for him, because now it's our turn."_

He meant it, too; sounding like he wanted to pound Virgil's location out of Belaghant in person. Alan couldn't help smiling at Gordon's fierce, cocky readiness.

"Therapy, dude… it's cheaper than legal fees," he advised.

_"But less satisfying,"_ Gordon retorted.

Then Thunderbird 1 started drawing him Earthward, reversing 3's earlier flight. At two critical junctures, Alan fired his retro and steering rockets, giving Scott's silver aircraft a bit of help.

They'd have gone straight home, probably, had a sudden alert not sounded in all three Thunderbirds. This time, the emergency lay in Brazil.


	23. 23: Longshot

Please forgive my lateness, and accept my grateful thanks for all your reviews, Tal, Sam, Ed, Bee and Tikatu. Edits soon to come, I promise.

**23: Long Shot**

_Mid-afternoon, in a dim and dusty restaurant basement-_

Virgil Tracy got up and _made_ himself move; across the dirt floor, beneath a shuddering wood ceiling, more or less straight to the door. Yes, there was noise and confusion, but he needed to go. Now, while he still could, before the promise of all those shouted commands and blatting alarms landed right on his aching head.

The renewed motion caused his stomach to stir again, bringing forth a long and rumbling growl.

"Shut up," Virgil muttered. Not that anyone above or outside was likely to hear it. They were too preoccupied getting the h-ll out of Dodge. He hoped. Honestly, it was getting hard to think straight, so he shrugged away doubt and went to the door. Taking hold of a brassy, corrosion-flecked knob, Virgil jiggled it, standing to one side, rather than directly in front. Nothing happened, and no one challenged him. Right, then...

Growing more confident, Virgil took firmer hold and gave the knob a very quick turn. The door must've been locked on the outside, because he heard a sharp, welcome click; the sound of a latch snapping open.

Figuratively girding his loins, the captured pilot next cautiously tugged at the wooden door, letting it swing gently inward while he remained just to one side, by the threshold. A dark stairwell met his quick, nervous glance; rough wooden boards nailed to a rickety framework of cobwebbed planking. Another door lay just up top, at its head. Virgil glimpsed light around the door's splintered edges. Outdoor light, pickax-brilliant and squinting-sharp.

There was never a more motivated man. Summoning what remained of his strength, Virgil started upward. Though he moved as quick and softly as possible, the boards creaked beneath him and dust showered down. Still, there was no way out but through, so Virgil kept moving, trusting that the noises outside and above would disguise his activity.

The warped upper door did not yield to his first efforts. Not to the second, either. Several episodes of sharp, angry rattling took place before Virgil at last got it open. Then, with a crack of splintering wood, the door very suddenly gave way, almost sending him sprawling.

Light poured in, with swirling wind and a chaos of voices. Confused, Virgil pulled himself upright by clinging to the knob and doorframe, blinking around at a narrow alley, fronted on both sides by tin-roofed shanties. People were running about with hastily gathered possessions and wide-eyed children. They had dark hair, most of them, and deeply tanned skins.

There was an aura of barely-controlled panic in that surging crowd. They were being herded along, Virgil saw. Heard, too, for a pair of black helijets darted and swooped overhead, bellowing pre-recorded orders. Clearly, something was wrong.

Virgil stepped from the threshold without taking trouble to hide himself, though he did snatch up a colorful soccer shirt that someone had dropped. Anything but hairy-hide, bare-a$$ nakedness was better than his present outfit, which wouldn't quite button in front.

Okay, so he whipped the red soccer shirt on and tugged it well down. Then he seized someone's arm… a fleeing old man's… and tried to ask what was happening. No joy. The deeply wrinkled old fellow just gave him a startled look and then pulled impatiently free.

"Nao!" Grunted the stoop-shouldered man. He was carrying a half-full sack over one shoulder, and led a whimpering boy by the hand. "Deixe-me ir, Senhor! Eu devo apressar-se! Vem!"

Then, before Virgil could switch to his fumbling, half-recalled Portuguese, the old man hobbled away.

"Well, that was a dry hole," he said to himself, just to make conversation. "Guess I ought to step on out and play it by ear, huh? Dad and the rest have _got_ to be coming…"

But the question was: coming where to? Where, in actual fact, was he? Before the escaped pilot could answer those questions, something else drew his notice. A sudden shift in the air rattled the row of tin roofs, causing a time faded coca-cola sign to rustily sway. Squeaking and banging, the bottle-shaped sign beat out an irregular, minor-key theme. More than that, the wind brought Virgil a dense, awful stench of blood and sap and char. Something was burning, he thought; burning quite hot and close by.

* * *

_Thunderbird 1-_

"Say again?" Scott blurted, just in case he'd heard wrong.

_"Brazil's main microwave space generator has gone haywire,"_ his father repeated grimly. _"Instead of beaming rays to the power-collection dish, it's weaving across the jungle toward Rio de Janeiro. A couple of villages and ten miles of rainforest have already been hit."_

Said John, from the padded leather seat beside Scott's,

"So, the program's screwed up. We get on the keyboard and straighten things out. Thirty seconds, tops."

But Jeff replied,

_"No good, Son. It's been tried. The satellite isn't receiving. There might be something wrong with the antenna."_

"Meteor strike?" Scott hazarded, pulling up Sol-Sat's coordinates on his electronic flight board. "Or space debris? Almost any chip or ding to the antenna would mess up reception."

"Yeah…" John agreed, frowning over his comm screen, "But there's always a backup, and then a fail-safe Plan C, after that. Belt, suspenders, elastic waist-band and superglue; that's how the space program operates, Scott. Sol-Sat wouldn't go round the bend just because of a junk strike." (Although there was still plenty out there.)

_"Sabotage,"_ their father decided. _"And the timing can't be coincidence. Not after everything else that's happened this week. All right… here's the plan, boys. Gordon, you're to return to base at top speed. On arrival, I want you and Brains in Thunderbird 2, headed for Brazil."_

_"Yes, Sir,"_ the young aquanaut answered, from deep in the ocean. _"Fire up the engines and tell Brains to fasten his seatbelt. I'll be home in fifteen minutes."_

_"Good boy," _Jeff told him. Then, _"Scott, John, I know that it's asking a lot, but could you reorient yourselves for a long, angled shot at the satellite, and still make it home?"_

Scott Tracy looked over at his blond younger brother and then lifted his heavy dark brows.

"Well…?" he asked.

"Give me a second to run the numbers," John murmured, not looking up from his screen. "The aircraft'll have to be shifted around with 3 in tow, that takes a butt-load of power… then the laser's got to gimbal through at least thirty degrees to focus on the target… call it another 300 watts… firing the thing's gonna cost us, and at that distance it's got to be set at full burn to do any good…"

Then, slumping back in his seat, John shook his head.

"Dad, I'm sorry. No matter how I juggle the figures, I'm coming up short. We just haven't got enough fuel."

_"Well, __I'm__ still over 90 percent charged,"_ Alan cut in over the comm. _"Is there any way to start 3 back up and let __me__ have a go? You guys could talk me through the tricky parts, right? And you'd be better off anyhow, not having to drag 3 all the way back to base. So? What about it?"_

Said Scott,

"John? You were the one bragging about suspenders and superglue. What's our fail-safe procedure for a laser strike power-down to Thunderbird 3?"

The astronaut didn't answer immediately. Instead, he closed his blue eyes and seemed to withdraw; thinking like an astronomer/ mathematician with a skull full of neatly filed data.

That flickering came to his attention, again, only this time it was inside his head, not on the view screen and instrument panel. Well… what the h-ll, huh? Why not take a leap down the rabbit hole?"

_'Okay, I'm open to suggestions,'_ he thought at the bright-patterned glow, _'so long as nothing important…'_

What? Got lost? Deleted? John wasn't quite sure what he meant, or who he was talking to… except that the weird flickering triggered an icy-cold line down his back.

_'Just work up a plan and present it,' _he said._ 'Don't change a thing or delete anyone. I've had all I can take of that.'_

It was then that a set of schematics popped into his mind, from one of Brains' earliest prototypes. There'd been a sort of shunt pathway, he recalled… meant to safely route power surges the h-ll around 3's delicate cockpit systems. Ought to work both ways, John figured, unless the shunt been abandoned in later versions.

_'Negative,'_ something told him, in a tone just as crystalline-pure as a rotating Riemann sphere. _'Shunt 350 has been retained, though unmarked on current schematics, John Tracy.'_

He knew her, then, or would have done, if he'd let himself think any further. What if the end of the rabbit hole held the most beautiful, powerful thing you could possibly imagine? What if it loved you, _and only wanted to help?_

* * *

_Midworld, in a dim, frigid forest-_

The ferret squirmed a bit in Sir Gawain's two-handed grip. Then it simply… dripped free, converting to something like furry, pale water. The altered shape changer poured from his hands and onto the frosty ground, splashing Gawain's boots.

Moments later, a smiling young man rose up, slightly inhuman in face and form.

"Sir G!" Allat greeted him, throwing both slender arms about Gawain. "What's up, Buddy?"

The knight broke free with a shrug, or tried to. Allat simply lengthened his arms and held on.

"I'm well enough," Gawain said gruffly, removing the shape changer in the same way he'd have yanked off a shirt, "...Considerin'. But what happened t' you? I'd dispatched you t' Midworld, back when things over yonder seemed all but resolved. You were meant t' invite this lot t' Anelle's coronation… though tis just as well they stayed back, whatever."

Allat's head cocked. His dark eyes literally grew wider, taking up most of his face out of sheer, burning curiosity. Almost, he asked what had happened, but a sudden fierce sting-spell from Drehn shut him up.

"Wha… _ulp!_ What… an interesting suit of armor you have there, Sir G! Very eclectic. Colorful, even. I'd have figured you as more the conservative type, and then _bang!_ There you go surprising us all with something so daringly mismatched. Sort of down-market chic, you know?"

Gawain sighed, wondering why he'd bothered to free the wretchedly chattersome creature.

"I liked you far better as a simple, dumb brute," he snapped, self-consciously rearranging the badly-matched chainmail, breastplate and harness. "But, as y'r talkin' once more, try t' keep y'r words sensible."

The shape changer's mouth vanished, leaving only blank flesh beneath his oddly flat nose. Gawain shook his red head and then turned away. Not for the last time, he wondered whether traveling about with such oddly assorted creatures might not be a mistake. Unnatural, as his father had claimed. Then,

"Sir G, Sir!" Barked Allat, to the knight's broad back and drooping shoulders. Apparently, his mouth had returned. "You requested intel on what happened to me in transit, Sir!"

"A passin' fancy, no more. Forget I asked," Gawain said hurriedly. But Allat talked on, regardless.

"I went through the portal in ferret shape, for safety, but your message was firm in my mind, Sir! Then…"

Allat's voice slowed, changing pitch as the length of his neck and vocal cords altered.

"Then something happened on the way through. A curse almost nailed me. But I got off a sizzling counter spell and… well, the next thing I really remember is waking up here, looking at you. Funny, huh?"

"Funny," Gawain agreed quietly, not laughing at all. "Now, if y'll excuse me and accept congratulations on avoidin' Reynard's poxed death-curse, Glud stands in need of assistance. His delight of a brother's been hauled off in chains f'r the slave port, so I thought I'd pitch in t' retrieve th' lost lad."

If Gawain expected an end to the shape changer's foolishness, he was disappointed. Allat exploded into the form of a bright-plumed bird and then went soaring about the small, frozen glade, screeching,

"Quest! Quest! A new quest! Save the half-orc and save the world! Kiss the fair maidens and make them all blush!"

Very distracting, but not for Glud. The orc's homely face was alight with hope and relief; his dark, braided mane standing almost erect.

"You will help us, Friend Gawain?" he rumbled. "I can offer no gold for your hire, but…"

"I need none," snapped the knight, walking off to reclaim his horse, whom he decided on the spot to name 'Blanchard'. "F'r better or worse, tis a free man I am; bound t' none but myself, my friends and t' Midworld."

A few snowdrops and crocuses pushed up through the frost at these words, unfurling a bright bit of color against bleak, blackened ground. Allat ceased flapping around, landing hard on Glud's massive shoulder. No matter, the half-orc was too pleased to take notice. Speaking with dignity, he said,

"Friend Gawain, from now 'til the very last root of the Tree has withered away, the men and maids of my folk will stand at your side. You have my oath."

Then again, perhaps there was nothing at all wrong with creatures.

"Which way?" Gawain asked him, swinging up onto Blanchard from a handy, snow-dusted log. "Slaver's are not a fast-movin' lot, but tis best t' arrange our encounter well away from cities of men, who'd as soon fight f'r profit as right."

Drehn had by this time sprung lightly up onto his mare, lissome Grayling.

"Leave that to me," said the pale-haired elf, smiling a very thin smile. "I can track a gust through the storm, or a thought through Glud's skull. We'll find them, and well away from South Port, at that."

Only the scholar had yet to mount up, which he did after shifting a pony-load of bags, boxes, scroll-tubes and vials.

"About the Tree and Long Winter," he said, as their party at last headed off, "Let me explain what is killing our world… though no one in Rhys could be troubled to listen."

Gawain bowed from the waist, as well as he could whilst on horseback and holding a spear.

"Speak on," he said, above the gentle music of hoof beats, wind and creaking harness. "Tis all attention, I am."

Well, when some folk sketched in the air with their hands, you were required to employ imagination. But Frodle's broad, sweeping gestures left glowing lines in their wake. With a few quick stokes, he drew a tall, spreading tree. One with worlds at the tip of each branch and the end of every root but one.

"This is our center and wellspring," said the curly-haired halfling. "The Tree from which everything grows and takes substance. High Alfheim and Elysium, for instance, lie _here,_ at the tip of the farthest branches. Midworld _here."_ Frodle pointed several times, ending at a misty sphere which lay nestled in the cleft of a branch.

"And what of that one," asked Gawain, indicating what looked like the merest pale bud, farther along the same bough. There were tendrils, he saw, linking this otherworld to their own.

"Hmm… Not sure about that one," said the scholar, tugging at his coarse linen robe. "It appears newly sprung, yet connected, somehow. Coincidence, no doubt."

"And Faerie?" probed the knight, despite his own better sense. "How does one reach it through tree-climbing, Sir Scholar?"

Frodle thought for awhile. Then he turned in the saddle and sketched a bit more, adding a free-floating world and the glimmering sky road to his obediently traveling image.

"As far as I can tell, Gawain, Faerie lies not on the Tree, but beside it, accessible through portals, alone. And those may only be opened by one the Sidhe."

"Or," put in Drehn, with well feigned boredom, "by one who has dwelt, loved and eaten there. But such beings aren't at all common."

"What lies at the base?" Gawain interrupted, changing the subject abruptly. His heart was beating quite roughly, all at once.

"Svartheim and Hades," said Frodle, sketching rough blotches of fire-tinged dark. "Among other foul hells. And here, below even these, lies a great dragon, whose breath once melted the frost and warmed up the roots of the Tree."

The scholar sat back on his stout pony, causing parcels and baggage to rattle and clink.

"There, my friends, lies the source of our trouble, and the uttermost end of the world."


	24. 24: Loss of Direction

Not so late, this time. Thanks, Sam, ED, Mitzy and Bee, for reading and commenting. Will edit soon.

**24: Loss of Direction**

_At the edge of space, in Thunderbird 3's echo-y, cooling main passage-_

From recalling that bypass shunt in Alan's crippled red 'Bird, it was the smallest of leaps to strategizing the shortcut's use. A few minutes' thought (back-checked with Brains and their father) sparked the idea of reversing normal flow to direct start-up power from a subsidiary system… such as life support… back down to the engine and guidance dynamo. Sounded easy enough in theory, but _did _involve a certain amount of sleeve-rolling and cable-wrestling for Alan… all while he marinated in that annoying, protective warbling noise that Brains had cooked up.

"Guys," Alan snapped (up to his elbows in wires and conduits, like a doctor working on guts), "Seriously? If that noise doesn't stop, I'm gonna hit the self-destruct button!"

_"There isn't one,"_ John told him, with admirable patience.

"Then I'll make it myself; a big red button in a glass case with a hammer, just so I can break the case, press the button and put that dang screeching out of my misery. There'll be a countdown sequence, flashing lights and everything. Just like the movies."

_"Sounds great,"_ Scott cut in. _"I'll run it past dad first chance I get. In the meantime, how about reversing that commutator and resetting its field orientation?"_

A simple enough fix, which caused a few watts of power to flow in the other direction, once a quick-rigged splice had been made and then tape-sealed. See, the engine and guidance dynamo had been cut off, not ruined; a safety feature intended to prevent explosions and hull-breech. Sure enough, with a bit of crafty effort, she started right up again. Grinning, Alan patted the nearest bit of machinery and said,

"Okay, John… officially, you're a genius. There was some question, at first. I was like, _Nah…! _Nobody that lame and boring could possibly be up there with Einstein… but now I take it all back. You rock, bro."

Unfortunately for Alan, John didn't know how to take compliments; even left-handed ones.

_"My scan indicates that you're up and running, Alan,"_ said the blizzard-blond astronaut. _"Secure all the connections and panels you've been working on, double-time, and then get your a** to the cockpit. Dad's relaying our mission specs in five minutes, and we've got to be ready to move."_

Alan moved. Out in Thunderbird 1, meanwhile, Scott Tracy reached over and gently (for Scott) punched his brother's left shoulder.

"Nice work," he said, meaning it. "Every time we're stuck between a rock and a hard place, you find the trapdoor."

…Or the rabbit hole. John managed to nod, but he kept all those sparks and shards of responsive emotion to himself. He'd gained something incredibly important in this place… couldn't quite remember what or who… while the other things (His wife? A baby daughter?) ...could surely be won back. At least, they could if he managed to stop Five from shifting him again, which meant keeping things sane and survivable.

Dad called a few minutes afterward, with fly-over permits and a plan of action.

_"Boys," _Jeff told them, _"Well done. Now, we'll be working in three tiers, so listen closely. Alan will head for the satellite and knock out that microwave beam. Electro-Paulo says we're to do whatever it takes, short of completely destroying their property, but as far as I'm concerned, people come first. If you can't stop the beam, shoot it down."_

Their father paused then, both to order his thoughts and give the boys time to consider their own stance on the matter. Fortunately, like Jeff, Lucy and Brains, they were very much with him.

"_Scott, John, you'll use Thunderbird 1's force field generator to deflect the beam into space, once Brains has calculated a fairly safe trajectory. Thunderbird 3 will probably have to tow you home, afterward, but now that she's back in business, that shouldn't be much of a problem. Brains and Gordon in Thunderbird 2 will manage ground rescue operations, following the beam's path… Which has been pretty devastating, according to the internet news broadcasts. Further details are in your mission files, labeled: Sunny Day. Any questions? Good. Then let's go to work."_

Two things happened, then, right about the time that Jeff Tracy signed off. First, the search bot which John had set up finally reported a brief cell phone reference to _"the rich American hostage". _John ordered the phone's location traced and its call-log cloned, getting a first real fix on Virgil.

Second, GPS and digital compass systems world-wide suddenly went nuts; losing track of north and south, then placing the poles in some kind of rotating lighthouse beam around the planet's equator. Overwhelmed, the systems next shut down entirely, their logic circuits seizing up as a flood of impossible data piled in. There were vivid auroras all over the tropics that night; weird, dancing spirits of hard radiation.

* * *

_Outdoors, toward sunset, weak and woozy, but free-_

Another time, he'd have tried to flag down a police officer. Here and now, though, keeping to the lunatic fringe of a fleeing mob made about as much sense as anything else. Virgil was able to snag a fallen banana and one dropped, dented can of salty corned beef, at least; all things considered an on-the-run banquet, consumed with starving-dog gusto in great, shaky gulps. Almost, he threw it back up again, but sheer will power kept the fuel where it needed to be: right there inside him.

That burning smell grew stronger as he jogged along through the hot, crowded streets. Sirens and loudspeakers noisier, more strident. Then, from somewhere behind, came the first awful sound of explosions.

* * *

_Midworld-_

A mortal rescue party, searching late in time and without a physical trail to pick up, would have had serious trouble hitting their target. But a dark-elf hunter tracked with scent and with mage-craft; attuning himself to the stirring of forces around what he sought. Provided that his quarry deployed no mighty concealment spells, Drehn could find just about anyone, no matter where they'd decided to hide.

Of course, what he received was a straight-line path, taking no account of rivers, gorges, ogres' dens and suchlike natural hazards. But this was where inhuman memory and considerable luck did their bit (along with occasional transport spells, when climbing down one side and back up the other just didn't strike the right note).

They traveled southwestward, stopping only to eat cold, conjured meals and to rest their horses. Still, they might not have caught up, except that an armed slave-trading party could not move very swiftly; not with young children, maidens and tightly-bound men in tow, destined for sale to far-distant markets and fighting rings.

Aware of the dangerous odds, Gawain pushed Drehn and the others relentlessly, especially once they began encountering "cast-offs". Just corpses, at first; dog-torn and blade-hacked. Then, by a deep, rocky valley, a few children, too weak and cold to go further. These presented a serious problem, as they could not be left back. Hungry and frightened, the abandoned children huddled together beside the cliff's edge, stopping Sir Gawain short and sharp.

"We haven't time for this," muttered Drehn, as his companions drew rein and dismounted.

"We'll make it up, somehow," the knight replied stubbornly, locating his stash of bread and dried beef. "But I cannot in conscience ride on."

"Very well," snapped the elf, catching the reins Gawain tossed him. "So patch them up, give them a quick meal and transport the lot back to their village."

"Where they will only be sold, again," answered Glud, scowling in a manner which caused all three children to press close together, arms clutching tight in a mockery of protection. "If they were not orphaned and poor, elf, they would not be here, now."

One was a young lad, too lamed by the trek to keep going. With him were two females; both skinny and stark-ribbed, the older one quite freshly scarred. All three wore stained rags which did little to cover them, or keep out the wind. Rather touchingly, the boy attempted to stand between the two lasses and Sir Gawain, who must have seemed an absolute, iron-forged mountain. But the older lass yanked him backward again, as though three huddled small children were safer than one.

Gawain sketched a sign in the killing-cold air which meant _peace._ Then he called upon Midworld and the fiery power he'd once served to witness the truth of his sigil.

"Y'r safe enough," he said to the terrified little ones, "as Heaven and Earth c'n attest, should they care to." Then, handing over the food, "We travel in search of th' ones who caught and abandoned you. From the signs, they're not far ahead, but...erm… th' horses grow tired, and I'd lief as not halt f'r a while."

(Not very clever, perhaps, but well intentioned. Drehn merely snorted and looked away.)

The eldest lass hesitated momentarily, then accepted his gift of bread and meat, to which Glud added sharp cheese and Frodle a bowl of conjured sweet milk. Allat took a series of amusing shapes, at last causing the smallest lass to giggle a bit. The other two remained wary, however.

"If you please, sirs…" whispered the oldest girl, while the lad clutched a stick he'd hauled up from the snow. "Why are you here? Do… do you seek the reavers to buy back one of your own? Or from vengeance?"

"I will purchase nothin'," vowed Gawain, quietly working a mage-fire spell for warmth and light. "Nor sell, either. What I mean t' give y'r former captors will be delivered free of charge, at the end of my spear."

She hugged herself, considering his words and demeanor. Experience and cruelty had left deep, fearful scars, yet the aura of a paladin was difficult to resist, and she so badly needed assistance.

"Put down that stick and eat, Kel. You too, Laney. We've a long way to go in the morning."

The cliff's edge was drafty, so the party made camp near a stand of stunted bare trees; Drehn seeing to the horses while Frodle arranged their gear and Gawain set ward stones. At first, the children watched warily, standing just a bit off. Then, gnawing at the dried travelers' fare they'd been given, they crept within reach of the mage-fire's warming. Britte, Kel and Laney, they were, from Little Wyckswold. Allat and the two youngest were soon very good friends, though Britte stayed quiet, averting her badly-scarred face.

"What troubles you, friend Gawain?" asked Glud, when the red-haired knight remained too long at their campsite's perimeter, task uncompleted. There was a final spelled stone in his hand, meant to be set at the ward circle's cardinal point.

"Somethin's wrong," said Gawain, in a very low voice. _"More_ wrong, that is t' say. Th' cardinal point, Glud… th' spot on our ward-ring nearest a place of white magick… where is it?"

The half-orc chuckled at that, for such basic divination was simple enough for a cub, much less… All at once the muscular warrior blinked. Then, amulet-studded mane clinking and chiming, he turned a full circle, searching inside himself for that tell-tale directional glow. Flints and frost scattered and cracked beneath his booted feet, but the tug of safe power came not.

"I… know not, friend Gawain," he answered at last, growing confused. "The ley-lines have vanished."

Sir Gawain nodded silently, biting at the inside of his lip. Always… all his life… he'd had that sense of Cardinality and Opposition, of the magickal directions to be sought or avoided. Now, though, his interior weather vane seemed to have failed him. Nor could all of Drehn's spells or the scholar's dowsing turn up a cardinal point. Indeed, something was wrong.

"Break camp," Gawain ordered, not bothering to consult his equally worried companions. "Saddle th' horses and prepare f'r a hard ride. If th' lines and points 're down…"

"Everything's going to be stirring," the elf finished for him, "except for the gods above, who watch this sort of thing like a minstrel's show. What of the young ones, Sir Knight? They'll be troll food before midnight, if left to fend for themselves."

The dark-haired smallest began to weep, hugging round, fuzzy Allat so hard that his eyes popped and reformed many times.

"We can manage, Sirs," whispered Britte, through stiff, scabbed-over lips. "If we've fire, and time to gather a pile of stones."

Gawain paused amid the hurry of camp-break to touch the top of her head. She was a short, slender lass; pure peasant stock, with a broad, battered face, brown hair and determined blue eyes.

"Collect y'r stones," he said, "and make ready t' leave. Properly heaved, a good, honest rock'll take th' mischief out of most any creature, and we c'n use every weapon and warrior."

New scar tissue twisted her attempted smile into something horrid. No accident, that, but a deliberate maiming, for the knife stroke had slashed the lass's left ear, her cheek, nose and mouth, leaving ruin and anguish behind it. With a forefinger, Gawain traced the damage, not erasing it, quite, but healing and partly smoothing the gash. Later, with more time, he could do better, but for now…

Britte gasped, feeling her face with both hands to find naught but a faintly raised seam.

"Oh, sir…" she whispered, seizing his hand, "I… we will get the sharpest rocks we can find, and throw like we're poaching the king's own wood!"

"I never heard that," said Gawain, briefly returning her smile. Then, as day and night creaked on their glimmering hinge and dark things were loosed throughout Midworld, the party mounted up and set off.


	25. 25: Dead Reckoning

Sorry to be late, and thanks very much for the reviews. Will edit after Mass, tomorrow. Happy Easter! =)

**25: Dead Reckoning**

_Altaplano, Brazil; amid heat, tumult and chaos-_

The trouble was, Virgil simply hadn't the strength to keep running. Five days in a drugged coma… nearly a week without solid food… had left him terribly frail and unsteady. Fairly soon after leaving his prison, even small kids and burdened old ladies were passing him up.

Tired, the pilot had to pause quite often for rest, hands on his knees, crouched over and gasping for air. It was during the last of these weak spells that Virgil saw the yellow-eyed man, gliding toward him like a tiger shark, right through the crowd of surging refugees. Yellow eyes, dark hair… just like the guard in his cell.

Another explosion shook the ground beneath his bare feet; this one near enough to pepper the dirt road and surrounding tin roofs with bits of flaming debris.

Around him, people cried out and ran faster, but Virgil hardly noticed. Those eyes struck through him like talons, causing his gut to clench and a thin line of ice to slide down his spine. There was something very dangerous and deadly about those eyes, which held an assassin's manic, murderous intent. The man was armed, too, judging by the bulge in his tan-colored jacket.

Tearing his gaze away from the stalking assassin, Virgil lunged for shelter in a nearby dark alley. His first instinct was to look for a non-lethal weapon, but the shadows and puddles around him yielded nothing but shipping pallets and a rotten, nail-studded board. Virgil scooped it up anyhow. Then he ducked behind the creaking, haphazard pallet stack.

That the gunman was coming for him, Virgil had no doubt at all. But that burning smell… the noisy explosions and chemical smoke… were now terribly close. There wasn't much time to fight his assailant or run away from him. Not with danger approaching and so many innocent people out in the streets. Of course, he still had that captured pistol, but… Suppose the guy started shooting, and Virgil shot back? Any bullet that failed to strike its target was sure to hit somebody else. A kid, say.

Maybe you've had one of those near-final moments, when everything looked and felt realer, more meaningful, somehow. Virgil Tracy had one, himself, just then. He felt a hot wind stirring his hair and red jersey. Felt oily mud squelching beneath his feet, and the half-rotted wood of a makeshift club creasing the skin of his tightly clenched hand. Rust streaks trailed from exposed nail-heads on the building beside him. Somewhere in the distance a dog howled, and then the alley's sun-splinter entrance was blocked by a stooped silhouette.

Every hair on the back of Virgil's neck and arms stood up. Almost, he stopped breathing, hoping that the shadowy figure would simply pass on. It did not. Instead, the yellow-eyed gunman entered the alley, just as a fresh wave of pressure drove at Virgil's unguarded mind. Pain like a dagger slashed through his thoughts, seeking to crush him unconscious. He had five or ten seconds at the most, Virgil figured, and no time for anything fancy.

Dropping the club, he shouted aloud and then thrust his broad shoulder at the rickety pallets in front of him. They wobbled and swayed toward the other man. Then the entire stack collapsed in a clattering tumble, driving the fight (and the Hood) right out of the guy. He never even fired his gun. Better, that claw-like, awful pressure ceased the moment his opponent fell, leaving Virgil numb and confused, but still conscious.

Heart hammering, the pilot lurched over and started hurling away pallets, creating quite a storm of noise and splinters in the process. He was ready for anything, but the gunman (like his fallen jailer) had gone completely senseless; loose as an emptied old sack. Concerned, Virgil felt for a pulse, and then peeled the man's lids back for a look at his now rolled-back eyes. Nothing. Nobody home.

"Another one," the pilot whispered, shivering in the wake of retreating adrenaline. "Well, Buddy… I hope you're lighter than you look, because we've got to get moving."

Already, Virgil could detect the steady crackle and roar of advancing flame.

"Don't suppose you'd have a cell phone handy, by any chance?" he inquired, squatting down in the mud to search the man's pockets. Then, _"Bingo._ Now, tell me that it's fully charged, with a strong signal, and we're friends for life. I'll name my kids after you. All seventeen of them."

It was just a slim grey flip-phone. The kind you buy with pre-paid minutes and no contract at all, but it looked like a storehouse of rubies to Virgil Tracy. Funnily enough, he'd hardly begun pressing buttons when the phone all at once started to buzz and vibrate in his grasp.

"Umm…" he hesitated, wondering what to do next.

* * *

_Tracy Island-_

Gordon had time for little more than a hasty kiss from TinTin and his mum (who handed him a much-needed sandwich). Then he struggled into uniform and raced to join Brains in Thunderbird 2. He ought to have been exhausted, but a sudden wave of energy hit him as the red-haired young athlete swung himself into the copilot's seat.

Glancing across the cockpit, uniform awry and mouth full of roast-beef sandwich, Gordon said,

"What's the hold-up, Brains? Can't find the start button?"

The engineer frowned slightly and shook his head. In a reproving tone, he said,

"I am, ah… am w-well versed in start up and, ah… and basic flight techniques, G- Gordon. And your, ah… your levity is m- misplaced."

"Sorry," Gordon shrugged, finishing the last of his sandwich in two barracuda-like gulps. "Must've left it in the pocket of my other pants."

Hackenbacker rolled his blue eyes and then turned to face the beeping and flashing instrument panel. Tracking the older man's stare, Gordon sobered right up.

"What's happened to our guidance system?" he asked, leaning over to fiddle a bit with Thunderbird 2's glitching compass. The North Pole was now in _Kenya_? Really?

"M- More to the, ah… the point, wh- what's happened to the entire Global Positioning network?" Brains mumbled unhappily, looking like a man who'd been beaten and lied to.

Under the circumstances, Hackenbacker might have had a hard time finding Brazil. Fortunately, Jeff and John Tracy were less confused, having navigated the hard way, before.

_"There're no compass directions in space,"_ explained the former astronaut, speaking over the comm, _"just right ascension, declination and dead reckoning. Simple enough, once you get used to it."_

Riiiight…

_"Use you charts,"_ John clarified. _"Pick a landmark or star and keep it in your octant bubble for the calculated amount of time, then switch to another that matches whatever course corrections you need to make. In this case, since you want to head east, I'd launch, pour it on, and keep the sun dead ahead until you've got the west coast of South America in sight. Then you'll want to slant northward about 34 degrees, using a list of landmarks I'll have ready in about… um, thirty seconds."_

They could hear the noise of a keyboard, and Scott talking to someone over another channel, beyond John's rather monotone voice. Said the astronaut,

_"Whatever you do, ignore your instruments. Not sure what the h-ll's going on, but even the physical compasses have gone nuts."_

Brains went pale. Quite mechanically, he triggered Thunderbird 2's launch sequence. Then, in a very low voice, he said,

"J- John… Mr. Tracy… Could one of you check, ah… check t- to see what our tropospheric radiation levels are like, at the, ah… the moment? I've g- got a hunch that they've, ah… they've risen somewhat."

Out in thunderbird 3, meanwhile, Alan Tracy had been surfing network and internet channels. Now, with his sky-blue eyes wide and wondering, he said,

"Hey, guys…? Guys? Listen a minute, will you? There's all these WNN reports of auroras and junk over Africa. Like, northern-lights-type auroras. And according to Science Watch, the compass readings aren't just off; they keep shifting."

_"Radiation levels have spiked, all right,"_ cut in John, speaking to Brains and his father. _"Think it's a pole switch?"_

"Th- That would be the likeliest scenario," Hackenbacker confirmed, as Thunderbird 2's hangar doors began rumbling apart. "This, ah… this rather changes things, gentlemen. W- We'll be feeling our way along the, ah… the coast like the ancient Greeks and Phoenicians."

_"Just be careful," _Jeff instructed, while Thunderbirds 2, 1 and 3 blasted away on their separate missions. _"Watch your fuel, and keep a star or a landmark always in sight. John, work up something that'll match each Bird's position against a reliable chart, and alert your brothers if they start to veer off course. Understood?"_

"Yes, Sir," the astronaut responded. Then he paused, when his bot returned word on the location of that mysterious phone message. The last cell-tower ping put the phone in Brazil, in or around the town of Altaplano. Ground zero for the haywire microwave beam, naturally.

"Dad," John said urgently, hitting the comm again. "I may have found something."

* * *

_Midworld-_

They mounted up thusly: wee Laney was perched on the saddle before Gawain, young Kel behind Drehn, clinging to the elf's narrow waist, and Britte (determined to be brave) behind stout, cheery Frodle. Glud, of course, did not ride, while Allat could take any form that he chose, including that of a horse or a bird.

Warmly dressed now, the children were pale and quiet; aware of the danger ahead. Perhaps made more so when Drehn flexed his left wrist, causing a serpentine tattoo that he bore to slither and move. Britte stared, mouth wide open, as a coppery wyvern leapt from the elf's arm, clattering and flapping into the blustery air.

"Guard," Drehn ordered the quarrelsome beast, pointing at Laney, Kel and then Britte.

The small dragon arched its gleaming neck and made a noise like a kettle about to boil over. Most of the others took its presence in stride. Not Blanchard. Sir Gawain's nervous white horse reared up to paw at the air, but he got the animal under control again. To her credit, Laney didn't so much as whimper, though she'd been hurled back against diamond-hard chain mail.

"Elf," said the knight, once his horse had quieted, "whatever else may chance, we've yet t' rescue Glud's brother. Lead th' way, if you please, makin' th' best speed you can manage; we'll follow along."

The elf nodded once, shimmering faintly in a strange pale light of his own. Bow in hand, he said,

"I'll try to remain watchful, but that's hard to do properly whilst tracking iron and mortals. If anything slips past me…"

"It _won't _get past me!" Allat chortled, zipping around in the shape of a feathered serpent (which might have been impressive had he topped more than five feet in length). Changing color as he went, Allat swooped once or twice around the hissing, snapping wyvern, and then rose like fog to the uttermost branches. "I'll be just overhead, where no one can see me," he boasted proudly.

When all was ready, Frodle summoned a bridge of glittering motes, and they spurred their mounts across the windy dark gorge. Glud loped alongside, axe and spear in hand, face like a carved, scowling rock. He hated such flimsy mage-spans, and would not look down.

Drehn set a hard pace, because a weird change had come over the forest, and nothing felt quite familiar. Gawain, especially, was lost; unable to locate a source of magickal power. Nor did the trees around them respond naturally. Rather than bending out of the way or pointing out hazards, the bare elms and oaks seemed utterly lifeless.

Gawain loosened his sword in its scabbard and then pulled his shield around from where it had hung at his back. Carried just so, it sheltered the small lass riding wide-eyed before him, thumb tucked in her mouth for comfort.

"There," he said warmly, just before the attack, "you've a house of y'r own, now. Safe as chapel."


	26. 26: Ground Zero

Thanks for your reviews, Sam and Bee. =) Didn't get quite as much writing done as I'd hoped, but here's a bit more.

**26: Ground Zero**

_In the small, threatened town of Altaplano-_

With the opened grey phone already buzzing and shaking in his hand, Virgil Tracy had a decision to make. Typically, he didn't hesitate for long. Making certain that there wasn't any video feed, he picked up, answering the call with a gruff (and hopefully generic),

"Yeah?"

There was a quick burst of intense, possibly wrathful speech from the other end. A strange male voice, it was; low, foreign and rapid. Forcing himself to remain calm, Virgil replied,

"Uh-huh."

Wasn't sure exactly why he wanted to keep the other man talking, unless someone… John, maybe… could use a longer phone call to track them, both.

More furious gibberish followed, sounding not much like Portuguese. Then the other man paused, evidently expecting an answer. But by that point, Virgil was out of time and patience. As he'd told the unconscious gunman, earlier, they had to get moving.

"No, thanks," he said clearly, just before ringing off. "Not interested... but you have a nice day, hear?" Like Grandma, brushing off a rude salesman.

The other end started to say something (in English, this time) but Virgil snapped the phone shut. He was dizzy and tired, and the sounds of burning chaos were now dangerously close. Tucking the phone away beside his captured notebook and gun, he leaned down to haul his unconscious companion out of that dank, muddy lane. Managed to wrestle him into a fireman's carry, even. The effort left Virgil gasping, but he wouldn't leave the other man behind. Not while strength endured and hope of recovery remained.

Bits of white ash swirled past him like very weird snow, still glowing at the edges. A hot wind gusted along the street, stinking of spilt fuel and charred wood. Burdened as he was, Virgil couldn't run, but he did try to pick up his pace as he staggered out to the town's emptied main street.

Sun-dazzle struck like a baseball bat, but he turned in the direction the crowd had gone, following the bits and shreds of their panicked flight. A few labored minutes passed, measured in panted breaths and wobbling steps. Then he heard something; a woman's voice, speaking English in dramatically loud, news-giving tones.

A reporter, he thought; probably neutral and always on the look-out for a story. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, Virgil followed her voice to a badly-parked rusty white van.

The woman stood with picturesque shacks and billowing smoke at her back, speaking toward a thin sort of man with a portable news-cam. Reporters, indeed... and she, at least, was familiar.

"…Carving a swathe of destruction fifty feet wide across jungle and river, striking a fuel oil tank farm and now the village of Altaplano, sending its population fleeing for their lives. The scene here is one of… Wait, what's this? It looks like we have a new development, Peter. A last, staggering refugee; American, from the looks of him, carrying his injured comrade to safety."

She positively beamed at Virgil, silently instructing her cameraman to shift focus.

"Sir, I'm Cindy Taylor, WNN news reporter. Are you a fuel company engineer? Can you tell us what's happening further south? We've been forbidden by authorities to venture outside of town, but it looks pretty grim, over there."

She would have seemed downright beautiful, had Virgil not been spinning at the end of a really frayed rope. Anyhow, Cindy Taylor had dark hair and eyes like the locals, but a definite US accent. The cameraman was tougher to place, but his hair was curly and red, and he wore a Screaming Dead concert tee. Again, probably American. He shifted angle and focus as Virgil set down the gunman.

"Something's burning," the pilot told them, not very helpfully; adding, "Listen: my name is Virgil Tracy, and I'm not a hundred percent sure where I am. I was kidnapped from the airport at Rio de Janeiro, not certain how long ago, and if anyone watching this knows my family, please tell them I'm okay. And, uh… yeah. That's about it, except that this man needs medical attention… and if you've got any food, I'd sure appreciate something to eat."

Then he staggered, nearly collapsing to the rutted clay road. Being news folk, the cameraman kept rolling, while the reporter dove in to seize and steady her hulking, filthy and battered prize. Virgil Tracy! _Tracy Aerospace,_ billionaire kidnap victim Virgil Tracy…! Discovered under the most dramatic possible circumstances! Cindy could taste and feel that Broadcast Journalism Award, already.

"Sir? Mr. Tracy? Hold on, Sir. You've made it to safety. Peter, would you have someone call the Tracy family, please? I'm sure they've been worried sick."

It was very difficult to keep the grin off her face and out of her voice. But Abe had no such concerns. Safe behind his camera, he gave her two thumbs up and a mischievous wink. Moments later, the microwave beam reached Altaplano, moving across the landscape like the finger of God.

In its path, anything containing trapped water simply erupted. Metal objects screeched and sparked, causing blossoms of fire to open and spread, gushing fountains of ash and of glittering slag. The noise and stench were horrific. Split open and smoking, hundreds of birds rained from the sky. Trees exploded violently and water tanks burst.

"Time to leave," Virgil panted, telling the slack-jawed reporter and cameraman, "Journalism 101: never be part of the story."

"You betcha," Cindy agreed, helping Virgil to load himself and his 'friend' into the back of her van. "I hate posthumous awards. Abe! Time's a-wasting!"

"On it, Cin," he replied, sliding into the duct-taped driver's seat. "Just hang on tight and enjoy the ride, Sweetie. You too, Beefcake."

They left the back doors open as Abe spun the van around and roared up the town's bumpy and potholed main street. Cindy had a cell phone camera. Naturally, she hit the video feature, recording their juddering retreat from Altaplano. The view was incredible. Plumes of smoke and screeching birds rose from the burning rainforest. Nearer to town, fuel tanks smoldered like torches, collapsing in great roaring showers of flame. The tin-roofed shacks caught next, popping and scorching, or flaring with sparks. In a very short time, it seemed, Altaplano would be destroyed.

Then, just as their van caught up with the town's fleeing refugees, Thunderbird 2 hove into view. She seemed to block out the sky; massive, green and almost low enough to touch. The ground trembled and thrummed beneath the giant rescue craft, echoing the roar of her engines. Meanwhile, a squadron of Brazilian fighter planes screamed overhead, tracking Thunderbird 2 while avoiding Sol-Sat's microwave beam.

"Holy, f-ing Pulitzer," Cindy breathed, not knowing quite where to point her phone cam. "Peter, are getting all this?"

_"We certainly are, Cindy… and I've got Jeff and Lucinda Tracy on the line, right now. They'd like to speak with their son."_

Taylor shook her head.

"Tell 'em just a second. He's got a mouthful of peanut butter crackers, and Thunderbird 2 seems to be generating some kind of force field."

The signal went dead, then; all of her phone's bars dropping flatter than Friday night ratings.

"Sh-t," Cindy muttered, handing Virgil the phone. "What'd they do that for?"

"To shield the town and refugees from that beam, would be my guess," Virgil responded, downing the last cracker and looking hopefully about him for more.

"Great," Cindy snapped. "My heart is officially warmed. In the meantime, I'm also out of contact with the news desk. What if something exciting happens? Some idiot tourist with a f-ing digital camera will get all the footage and credit! D*mn it! I _hate_ International Rescue!"

Virgil chuckled; watching as one of his brothers first deployed 2's protective shielding, and then began spraying a fine mist of foam from the rescue craft's hull nozzles.

"Well, I don't know about IR," he said, as flames died and the beam began passing overhead, "but speaking for Tracy Aerospace, my father really hates _you."_

Cindy grinned at him, looking like an ash-smudged predator Barbie.

"Good," she replied. "That means I'm doing my job, Cupcake. Chasing disaster and shaking up fat-cats is what I do… and they don't come much fatter or smugger than Jeff Connal Tracy. But you seem all right… for a privileged rich guy, I'm saying. Must take after your mother."

Virgil smiled. Overhead, the microwave beam traced a fiery, opalescent line along Thunderbird 2's sparking force bubble; like someone pressing hard on a computerized flat screen with their moving finger.

"Wow," was all Virgil could manage, though his heart was very much up in the cockpit with… Gordon, he figured, or Scott… Scott would have that sort of cast-iron testicular fortitude.

The sun set a few minutes afterward, making the glow overhead that much more eerily vibrant. If he could have, Virgil would have signaled his brothers, up there in 2, but it was enough that they'd come, and that all would be well, after all.

* * *

_Thunderbird 1, a bit earlier-_

While John gave his father the hacked cell phone data, Scott drew a fix on first Vega, then Menkent, using stars and landmarks to navigate in Sol-Sat's direction. Conserving fuel as best he could, Scott arrived at his target just after Gordon and Brains had reached theirs. _After_ they'd heard the good news about Virgil.

"Imagine that," Scott joked, craning past John to watch the WNN breaking news report. "A useful reporter! I may have to treat her to dinner, sometime."

Then they reached the danger zone, and his jokes dried right up. The microwave beam was invisible, of course; the rogue satellite no more than a faint, sun-winking gleam. But 1's instruments sensed both of them, and went into an instant, absolute frenzy. He had to cut off the resultant alarm concert, just to be able to think.

"We're going to run out of fuel, soon," said John, conversationally.

"Yeah," Scott replied, knowing full well that they couldn't remain in the sky once their engines cut off. "And that's where Alan comes in. You ready, Al?"

_"Right here. Tell me what to do,"_ their younger brother called over the comm, excitement causing his voice to crack.

"Okay," John cut in, taking over. "We're going to extend our force shield, deflecting the beam away from Earth. You get in close to Sol-Sat, image the h*ll out of her, and then send your pictures to Brains, WSA and Electro-Paulo. Be prepared to shoot her out of commission, if the problem can't be fixed, but wait for the go-ahead from dad, Brains or Scott. Understood?"

_"Gotcha, John. Just let me know if I'm getting too close, or anything… and holler back when you're ready for pick-up."_

"We're fine," John assured him. "Stay focused and work the main problem, Alan." Having helped locate Virgil, alive, the rest seemed as easy as buttering toast.

Thunderbird 3 did not reflect as much light as the malfunctioning microwave satellite. John could not see the slim scarlet craft through his view screen. He could follow her (and Thunderbird 2) via comm, however; also picking up live feed from both the Birds's cameras.

Astronauts are fairly unshakeable sorts, and John Tracy was typical of the breed; icy-calm in almost any circumstance.

"Watch your speed, Alan," he told his younger brother, half listening to Scott's nearby muttering. The dark-haired pilot was every bit as busy, easing his plane into just the right place.

With the skill of long, patient practice, Scott maneuvered into position below the rogue satellite. Thunderbird 1 next went into hover mode, and her force shield cut on. A low-fuel klaxon began blaring, again, but he killed it. _Old news_, he thought.

Then, while far overhead Thunderbird 3 approached Sol-Sat, Scott extended his rocket plane's field, at the precise angle described by John. Immediately, their thin spear of shielding began to quiver and spark, violently shaking Thunderbird 1. More alarms screeched to life, only to be hastily silenced. They felt like two pebbles in a rolling tin can, but the microwave beam… that horribly strong and invisible killer… was being bounced safe away. _That_ was what mattered.

Keeping one eye on their plummeting fuel gauge, Scott Tracy waited for word. It was Alan who spoke to them first.

_"Guys,"_ he said, after transmitting the pictures, _"Even this close, I can't see any damage, at all. No burns, dings or nothing! It's __gotta__ be sabotage. From the Hood, I'll bet."_

_"Save the speculations for debrief, Alan,"_ said their father, speaking from Island Base. _"You've got go-ahead to shoot out the transmitting dish. WSA promises a free repair mission, and Earth Gov has offered to supply replacement power to Brazil until Sol-Sat is back in operation. Do it."_

The young man smiled broadly, feeling like he was right in the midst of a really cool video game. Sol-Sat hung directly before him; big and boxy, with huge black solar panels and a wrinkly, gold foil fuselage. Rather than orbiting peacefully, it had developed a wild, ugly swing; unstable as heck.

"Say good-night, Blinky," said Alan, drawing a bead on the satellite's wavering broadcast-dish. Then, setting finger to trigger, he opened fire.

* * *

_Midworld; late at night, in a cold northern forest-_

When it came, the attack was sudden and terrible. Monsters banned for thousands of years burst from their ancient prisons, hungry and murderous. In several waves they struck, each one worse than the one before.

First, an avalanche of great, rolling heads… formed of stone and yet somehow alive… thundered through the wood. Like a tremendous landslide, they splintered trees and smashed animals, snapping with great quartzite teeth at whatever was too slow to escape them. Their noise was that of an earthquake, combined with a rumbling, stone-throated roar.

Allat rose high in the air, using a feathered serpent's earth magick to raise a series of hills between his friends and the avalanche. Didn't quite stop the giant stone heads, but deflected a few.

Meanwhile, Drehn fired bolts of hissing black ice, which Gawain and Frodle followed with blazing mage-fire. Overwhelmed by the temperature change, several heads cracked to pieces, but more rolled onward, swerving to charge at the travelers.

Spurring Blanchard out of their path, the knight reached within for more power. He didn't find any. Midworld was still listening, Gawain sensed, but fallen so weak and distant that she could not respond with more than a faint, warm blessing. Come what may, he was on his own.

As clouds of splintered wood shot past him, Gawain fell back. Keeping his shield-arm about Laney, he directed Blanchard with both legs; firing mage bolts at the oncoming monsters and trying to think. The forest rocked and flared with light, shuddered with horse-screams and crashing, felled trees. Then,

"Allat!" Sir Gawain shouted, standing high in the stirrups, "not up, _down!_ Dig out a moat!"

The glowing serpent twisted in midair, losing a handful of rainbow feathers. Then it worked magick again, once more causing the ground to shift. The Earth gaped and parted at the serpent's will like a crumbling brown mouth, cross-stitched with long, fibrous roots. Wider and wider it yawned, becoming a mighty chasm.

Glud leapt forward, then. Standing courageously right at the edge, he drew the giant stone heads to destruction. He'd let them get terribly near him, and then leap to safety while the massive boulders smashed to the bottom of Allat's moat. One after another, the things were destroyed, through a combination of bitter cold, volcanic heat, earth magick, courage… and even a few well-thrown rocks.

The last head shattered beneath the blows of Glud's axe. He'd vaulted atop the final stone monster, which was lodged halfway down in the trench. Legs well apart, singing ecstatically, the orc delivered strokes that would have shaken a mountain-top.

Still, the giant head roared and cursed, using a language not heard upon Midworld in all the ages of man. The words themselves were like weapons; vile and smirching. Something seemed to tear and burn within Gawain at the sound of them. And briefly, suddenly, he filled up with power.

The head beneath Glud cracked in half all at once, bisected by a line of pure, blue-white light. No, not just a line, but an enormous sigil; flaring upon the ground as though drawn there. Frodle skipped nimbly aside. Then he glanced past a hedge of head-high blue flame at the startled knight, who seemed pale and confused.

"Your doing, friend Gawain?" he enquired gently.

Beside him, Glud leapt from the broken stone head, grinning like a warrior knee-deep in vanquished foemen. All around the orc and his companions, the sigil's lines glowed bright, lighting the sky and the forest. Rather than searing, its flame healed what it touched, burning away cuts and exhaustion. (Which Glud discovered by accident, when he stumbled into the thing, after hitting the ground.)

Gawain didn't know how to answer Frodle's question, for the sigil _was_ one of the five Great Words of his former order… but he couldn't recall inscribing, or even thinking it.

"I can't say," he replied at last, honestly enough.

Young Britte had slipped off of Frodle's pony to comfort Kel and Laney. The excited boy smiled at her, but his small sister was once more too shocked to move. Britte scooped her from Blanchard's worn saddle, receiving a distracted nod from the knight.

"Well fought, Lass," he told her, having marked how many rocks wound up lodged in some fierce, stony eye, blinding it. "You've an arm, right enough."

Pleased, Britte sketched a rough curtsey, but Sir Gawain was already moving away; worried, perhaps, about further attack. Ah, well... the fine folk could not be expected to attend to mere children. Not with darkness astir and Midworld in peril.

Sighing, Britte hugged Laney close to her chest, soothing the child's whimpers. Then she wandered off and put a hand to the wall of pale flame, which licked along her fingers and right arm, spreading to brush at her face. Strength flowed, and with it, courage. All at once a strange, daft notion took hold of her. Returning to the knight's side, she shifted Laney to one hip and grasped his left stirrup.

"Sir," the girl said to him, looking up earnestly, "By your leave, I crave a boon."

When he gave her an encouraging nod, Britte continued, all in a rush,

"I… I should like to take service as your squire, M'lord."


	27. 27: Running Battle

Thanks for your reviews of chapter 26, Sam, Tikatu, Bee, Mitzy and ED. I'm sorry for the delay. My daughter and I took part in a softball tournament this weekend. We came in third out of twenty-one teams. We're happy, but tired. Chapter has been edited.

**27: Running Battle**

_Thunderbird 3, in low, geosynchronous orbit, with the glaring white sun to his left-_

A boxy gold satellite hung directly ahead of him. Having charged up the Bird's laser cannon and taken good aim, Alan fired. In his gun sights lay Sol-Sat's wavering power transmission dish, the antenna at dead-to-rights center.

Three pulses, timed just so, superheated the satellite's microwave mast, making it sag like overcooked pasta. Against a background of dark, empty space, the drooping antenna flared neon cherry. Then it collapsed against the inside of its own transmitter dish. Sparks flew and molten gobbets spattered, briefly creating a new, white-hot star pattern.

Alan grinned until his face hurt, utterly entranced by the sight. Better yet, trapped in a vicious feed-back loop, Sol-Sat shut down entirely, choking that monstrous beam.

"Woo-hoo!" he exulted aloud. "Gotcha! You want some ice for that burn, Mr. Hood?"

In the meantime (maybe five thousand feet lower down) Thunderbird 1 had reached the end of her fuel supply, having drained her reserve tank and sniffed up the last drifting fumes. Things began to go wrong pretty quickly thereafter. First, the Bird's force shield cut off. Then its engines began to sputter and whine. No longer able to hover, she started to fall; end over end, like a badly-thrown lawn dart.

Being tail-heavy, the rocket plane had a tendency to tumble rather than glide, adding to her overall "bottom-dropped-out" loss of control. Inside the cockpit, Scott battled the stick, trying like h-ll to stabilize her descent. He talked calmly all the while with Island Base and his brother, John; close beside him in the copilot's seat.

As wind like a hurricane roared all around the plummeting Thunderbird, heating her silvery fuselage, Scott announced,

"Fuel gauges at zero… we have complete engine cut-off… Beginning emergency landing approach… Will ditch in shallow water if Alan doesn't get here in time."

_"Do what you can to extend your glide, son,"_ his father responded, from helplessly far and below. _"Thunderbird 3's on her way."_

They had some battery power left; enough to run the instruments and avionics, with a little left over. Thinking quickly, John re-routed a bit of this charge to spark up their shields again, molding an aerodynamic shell for the juddering Bird.

All at once, the silver rocket plane became much easier to control. She leveled out of her crash-dive and began to glide. Scott glanced away from the view screen's message of doom to look at his blond younger brother.

"What'd you do?" he asked John, who was still hitting keys and shifting reserve battery power like crazy.

"I folded a force-shield paper airplane," the astronaut replied, "Won't last long, though, so pick someplace soft and get moving." But…

"How's she still answering the helm, then?" Scott wondered stubbornly, as he banked Thunderbird 1 down and away from the sunrise; on a long, shallow glide to the west.

"Because I've locked field conformation to your stick and rudder pedals, Scott. Whatever you do, she'll change shape to match… for about the next seven minutes. Suggest you make them count."

…Which was spoken in exactly the same tone John would have used to describe the weather, terminal illness or a hot date: calm and distracted, as though already bored with the topic. Scott smiled, shook his head and kept flying, aiming for the south Pacific, just in case. Then,

_"Hey, guys!"_ came Alan's cheery, exuberant voice. _"Going my way? These tow-ins are happening so often, lately, we might have to add 'Wreck and Salvage Service' to the end of our name, y'know?"_

A long, slim shadow crossed the forward comm screen, blocking their view of the ocean and clouds. John smiled at his keyboard, a little. Then he dropped Thunderbird 1's fading shield, letting the space Bird's Heim generator lock on and take over. Beside him, Scott sighed deeply and released the flight controls. Thunderbird 1 shimmied a bit and then stabilized, safely in tow and on her way home.

"Good to see you, Al. I'll run that name-change suggestion past dad, along with your panic button idea, some night when he's had plenty to drink and there aren't any heavy, blunt objects around. You got everything wrapped up with Sol-Sat, I take it?"

_"Yup. She's out there counting electric sheep like a good little murderous satellite. The rest is up to Gordon and Brains, down below."_

Said the black-haired pilot, rubbing at his closed blue eyes with the fingers and thumb of one hand,

"In that case, Al, let's call it a day. Right now, I need food, beer and about 18 hours of sleep."

Well… he'd wind up with two of those, anyhow; quite some time before Gordon or Virgil managed to wrangle the same.

* * *

_Altaplano, Brazil; surrounded by milling crowds and hurtling jet aircraft-_

The night was sweltering hot, chaotic and noisy. As Virgil looked on (peering through the opened back doors of a rusted white van) the microwave beam drifted slowly northward. Cindy Taylor had told him what was going on, so far as she could. The rest, he'd worked out for himself.

Thunderbird 2 rumbled and hovered just overhead, flattening grasses, shaking street signs and stripping leaves from the trees. The flood-lit white "2" on her flat green belly glowed like a beacon above him. So very close… and utterly inaccessible. After all, he was supposed to be no more than a spoiled, billionaire refugee, with little more interest than the local bystanders.

The beam cut off as Virgil was still wistfully craning his neck. Thunderbird 2's force-shield stopped fluorescing at once; no longer spattered and banded in lines of bright color. Then, no longer present at all. (He could tell, because Taylor got her cell signal back.)

"Guess that rogue satellite's down," the handsome pilot said cheerfully, as 2 began lifting away from the dark, crowded street. He had to resist a powerful urge to wave farewell. But Cindy was less sentimental.

"Abe, turn this heap around and follow them," she snapped to her cameraman. "If they're headed for the burning tank farm, we'll get serious footage and airtime. _Move."_

There might have been trouble, had Virgil not interfered to save IR security, saying,

"Hey! Remember me? The spoiled, demanding rich guy? I want that phone call home you promised, plus a lift to the nearest Tracy Aerospace branch office, a shower, plenty of food and, um… a massage. Yeah… to work all the kinks out. I don't deal well with stress, you know. I _hire_ people for that kind of thing."

Cindy stared at Virgil like he'd sprouted three heads and was spitting up toads. Probably, she would have put him out on the street then and there, had the Hood not lashed out again. The reporter was about to say something nasty when three yellow-eyed policemen approached her van. Next the unconscious gunman abruptly awoke and sat up, lunging for Virgil. Pinned him, too, against a shelf of strapped-down broadcast equipment.

Outside, the police bulled their way through a crowd of returning refugees, reaching the van doors with guns drawn and badges displayed.

"The man you harbor is a criminal, Senhora," snarled the nearest officer, waving his weapon. "Give him over, at once!"

Before Cindy could reply, Virgil managed a pale ghost of his former tackle-busting glory. He twisted wildly against the revived gunman, shoving his attacker off balance. Taylor's swift kick and Abe's sudden acceleration did the rest, hurling the flailing gunman out through the van doors and onto his startled fellows.

"Abe, floor it!" Cindy screamed.

Her cameraman gunned the van's engine and laid on the horn; weaving and honking past fluttering chickens, knife-ribbed dogs and screeching people. His headlights didn't work, but hey… who needed them?

"Typical day at the office!" Abe called back to his passengers, as a bullet shattered the driver's side mirror. "I _looove_ my job!"

Another slug popped and spanged through the right side panel, just about parting Virgil's hair. The cameraman whooped and accelerated in response, swerving now and again to throw off the shooters' aim.

Dust and darkness helped out, rising up like a wall between the cursing police and their rattling, jouncing target. A last few bullets whined past, but nothing more struck them. (Much to Cindy's chagrin. She'd been narrating their encounter to the news desk via cell phone, and gunshots equaled drama.)

Their van was fifteen minutes further down the road toward Rio and safety, when Taylor handed her phone to Virgil. It was his mother, sounding like a woman who'd been pulled to bits and pasted up rough.

_"Virgil…? Are you there, sweetie? It's mom."_

"Yes, Ma'am, I'm here. All in one piece and unhurt, except for my hand. A little hungry, is all."

She started to cry, unable to get much further with whatever she'd wanted to say to him. Virgil wished he could reach through the phone and hug her, but his mother was thousands of miles away, sobbing her heart out on the living-room couch. Dad came on a moment later, having apparently taken the phone from his wife's hands.

_"Son, Interpol and the CIA are flying out to collect you. In the meantime, you're to head for the Presidential Palace in Rio de Janeiro. His Excellency values our business, so he's sending guardsmen to meet you on the road. Stay safe and alert, Virgil. You're almost home."_

Almost.

* * *

_Midworld, in wintry cold, flame-lit darkness-_

"I should like to take service as your squire, M'lord," Britte had said to him, all but flooring Sir Gawain.

For one thing, the lass wasn't noble. For another, she had no training in arms beyond poaching the king's deer. But third… and most importantly… as a fallen paladin, Gawain had no right at all to take on and train up a squire. How could he steer anyone aright, when his own solemn vows had been shattered?

Yet… as he sat on his restless white horse, gazing down upon Britte… Gawain wondered. Three times now, his diamond-hard, flame-bright God had sent power. Once, when he'd been faced with a coven of demon-knights, again before Lady Entropy, and now, when cursed by the wretched stone heads. Perhaps… just maybe… there was hope? Not just for the current situation, but Faerie, as well?

A matter for fasting and visions, the knight decided, sighing gustily. But that wanted time and relative safety. Here and now, he had other concerns, one of which stood there, patiently awaiting his answer. Britte had shown great boldness and courage, earning something, surely...

He glanced around at the gathered others, who could not understand what hung at the end of this weighty decision. Then he looked back at the hopeful young girl, saying,

"Lass, I can make you no promise of full knighthood, as my own state is somewhat in question… but neither shall I nick you with nay. If you truly desire this, then whatever I can, I shall teach t' you."

Despite being burdened with wide-eyed Laney, Britte reached up to touch Gawain's steel-armoured hand.

"I vow to work hard and serve faithfully, M'lord," she whispered joyfully, not knowing how else to speak her promise. No matter; he'd never been a particularly formal sort, inclining more toward genuine worth than hollow pageantry.

"Right, then," he told her, smiling slightly. "If you'll be jack-fool and follow, I shall be tom-fool and lead. Between th' pair of us, Britte, we might just succeed in havin' you knighted."

Several paces away, Drehn snorted. Rather than comment directly, however, the pale-haired elf chose another, more serious tactic. Jerking a thumb at the sigil, he said,

"The longer we stop in one place, Gawain, the stronger impression we leave. Especially with this great, flaring blue landmark you've seen fit to create. Subtlety continues to elude you, it would seem."

"On the contrary, friend elf," cut in Frodle, beckoning Britte to mount up behind him on Dapple. "If this 'great flaring landmark' draws off any fraction of the evil pursuing us, then we are that much freer to find Voreig."

Made sense, so the elf simply shrugged and stopped arguing. Meanwhile, Glud snuffed uneasily at cold, shifting air. A low growl rose from the worried half-orc, whose dark mane bristled and whipped in the wind.

"We should leave," he grunted, stirring flint and snow with the butt of his spear.

Allat, back in ferret-form, scurried up the warrior's thick leg and onto his table-wide shoulders. The coppery wyvern hissed as he bounded past, drawing a long, chittering answer from Allat. Composed largely of ferret-ish curse words, it was; most of them dealing with missed kills, small dogs and collapsed burrows.

They left the place once peace was restored, slightly delayed because Gawain, without explanation, felt compelled to ride along each line and curve of his shimmering sigil.

"What does it mean?" Laney whispered, craning her neck to peer up from her perch on the saddle. Half-wrapped in his cloak, she sat snug in the shelter of chain mail and shield-arm.

Gawain considered a bit. Then, completing the final turn, he said,

"Many things, but mostly courage t' fight on, no matter th' cost or the odds… and that is no simple task. 'Tis one of the signs of... of a certain knightly order."

This seemed to satisfy the wee lass, who soon fell asleep, lulled by Blanchard's smooth gait and the comforting noises of travel. Her thumb slipped from her mouth, and she began to snore, leaning close against Gawain.

The sigil was several hours behind them when they came to the shore of a long, foul tarn. Its slimy verge was formed of mud and cobbles, its waters almost perfectly still, despite the cold wind. Naturally, the reavers' trail led right past the place, skirting water as chilly and black as a tomb.

"Not a good lake," Glud told them all, sneezing loudly. Nor was he the only one affected.

"Tarn Wathelyne. It has long been a place of execution and sacrifice," said the halfling scholar, looking up from his floating tome. "So black in experience that the very stones and trees are infected. A vile lake, indeed, and better avoided."

"Back," Gawain decided, drawing hard on the reins. "We'll find another way 'round."

Evil as the place clearly was, he sensed nothing from it but coldness and dank, and this troubled the knight greatly. Drehn, of course, had all the wrong instincts, having grown up among his sadistic Drow kinsmen. All he'd detected were water and dead things.

The scholar's warning had been heeded, but before they could leave, the lake began to seethe and glow; burning as fungus green as a corpse. Then a mountain of water bulged up in mid-tarn. It broke like a blister, releasing a massive bubble of reeking swamp gas, with a noise like a thunderous belch. Bad enough, and potentially suffocating, but what came next was still worse.

Bones and bodies, muck, slime and cobbles rose from the tarn and then began to assemble themselves. The skulls of drowned horses, slaughtered men and trapped creatures flew to the ends of long, whipping mud-columns, forming heads. Ropes of green algae made dense tendons and huge muscles. Bits of sacrificed weaponry provided the jagged, mismatched teeth as a monster swiftly took shape.

Next slimy cobbles rained against its flanks, landing with sharp, wet smacks to form a coat of hard scales. When the thing screamed aloud, its cry was composed of death-shrieks and drowning sobs. Its tallest head towered fifty feet in the night air; the skull of a dragon glistening within. Its breath, when those hundred mouths opened, was icy gas and decay.

Worse, whilst distracted by the beast's formation, their retreat had been cut off. The ground shook, dropping hundreds of feet in mere seconds to create a steep-sided, crumbling valley. Here, they would have to battle the lake monster. Like arena combat, in the lands where they allowed and enjoyed such things.

"Allat, get th' children t' safety," Gawain instructed. "Stay with th' wyvern, and help t' protect them from harm."

"But, Sir G…!" The shape changer protested, flashing through all of his mightiest forms. "I wanted to…"

"_Now._ Move y'r arse, sirrah!"

There was no time at all for delay, less still for argument. Allat hurried off, taking the form of a gold-feathered griffin to lift Kel and Laney away from immediate danger. Britte refused to leave him, so Gawain tossed her his shield and long knife, saying,

"Keep well back and defend y'rself, lass. Let those with more power do most of th' fightin'… unless an openin' presents itself that you cannot pass up."

(He'd been half-trained and eager to prove himself, too, when he'd first come to Lord Morcar's service.)

Britte nodded once, deftly catching the tossed knife. She remained crouched upon Dapple's broad back, while Frodle hovered above with his open tome, paging like mad through its leaves. Finding the information he sought, the scholar next shouted,

"This monster is a construct of death and despair, Gawain, held together by evil magery and animated by the calcified heart of a lich. Find and destroy the heart, and you'll finish the beast."

"That's all, is it?" The red-haired knight called sarcastically, as he, Drehn and Glud began spreading out. "And where in that mass of slime and corruption might I find a stone heart?"

The halfling returned to his tome, bending low and conjuring mage-light to read the fine script.

"Err… underwater, I think. Most likely deep within the main body. There will be tell-tale glimmers and swirling cold currents. You'd hardly be likely to miss it. Just take a deep breath first, and wait for my spell of clear-seeing."

There was only one choice for whom to send in, of course. Glud was overly heavy for swimming, while Drehn and the scholar depended too much on magick. Neither could cast spells if they weren't able to comfortably breathe.

"Perfectly beastly night for a swim," muttered Gawain, beginning to strip off his armour.

"Oh, you're not _that_ bad," quipped the dark elf, firing a storm of ice-bolts at the monster's darting, open-mouthed heads. "I wouldn't bother traveling with a complete waste of time, after all."

Gawain paused in removing his hauberk, while he worked out the pun. Then he resumed undressing.

"Thanks ever so. I'll remember that," said the knight, as a dozen more skull-heads descended on ropy, stone-cobbled necks.

Defending his companions, Glud leapt onto a tall granite boulder. Taking a wide-legged stance, the half-orc roared aloud, defiantly shaking his shield and notched spear. The crater walls rang and echoed in response, making the noise of fifty orc warriors. Absolutely fearless, Glud bought just enough time for Sir Gawain to strip himself down, get a running start and jump in, sword belted tight about his bare waist.

The water closed like an icy fist as he dove, chilling the knight clear through. Another might have been killed. But the tarn's life-draining magick was blocked by a flicker of something within him which stubbornly would not be doused; the mark of his fierce former Deity. So downward he swam, plunging through murk and decay in search of a vile, undead heart.


	28. 28: CounterThrust

Making up for lost time! Thanks, folks, for any and all reviews. They really do help me improve. Edited.

**28: Counter-Thrust**

_Thunderbird 1 and 3, approaching Tracy Island-_

Getting back was no joke, when faced with failed, spinning compass points and a downed GPS network. Scott, John and Alan succeeded in finding their way home because their father had always believed in old-fashioned, seat-of-the-pants flying and stellar navigation. So did the World Space Agency and US Air Force, for that matter. Only Alan was stymied by the wildly shifting poles, and not for very long.

"Guys," he asked, as they neared Tracy Island, "Is this pole thing ever gonna fix itself? Will we get back to normal, soon?"

_"Probably not," _John told him, over the comm. _"If we really __are__ experiencing a switch, then this wandering equatorial polarity will go on for… I dunno… anywhere from ten years to a thousand, eventually ending with a new, reversed alignment. In the meantime, our magnetic field strength is for crap, and radiation levels are redlining."_

Alan digested this in silence, flying his 'Bird and watching the point on the blue, rolling horizon where Scott had said home would show up. And sure enough, there it was, after the expected 45 seconds; glowing like a cloud-topped green emerald.

"That's kinda scary," he objected at last. "Finding things with a clock and sun-angles, like that. I want my dang guidance computer back!"

_"Yeah. And people in hell want ice water. Suck it up, Alan."_

John took over controlling the tractor field, when they reached Island Base. He had to, because lowering Thunderbird 1 into her hangar as an unpowered derelict was fiendishly difficult, especially from outside.

Scott watched the instruments and called out a steady stream of figures while John manipulated the Heim generator's strength and orientation; tweaking this and that to bring the 'Bird safely home to its deep silo nest.

Okay… so they _did_ scrape a tail fin and knock loose part of the upper boarding gantry. Still not bad, considering the situation.

Moving at honey-drop speed, Thunderbird 1 slipped gradually from tropical daylight to underground semi-gloom, raising sparks and screeches when she brushed something solid. Mostly, though, she descended in weird silence. No rumbling engines or throbbing impellers. Just wind, distant wave-pounding, and their father's voice calling a brisk 'welcome home'.

_"Well done, boys,"_ he congratulated them. _"I don't know when I've ever seen a better-executed emergency landing."_ Bit of a stretch, maybe, but well-intended.

"Thanks, Dad," Scott replied, hitting his comm switch. Then, slouching back in the pilot's seat, "It's good to be home. We'll, uh… see you in just a few minutes, once Alan's down and the post-flight's completed."

Already, the familiar _thunk_ and rattle of robot maintenance gear had set up, promising repair and refreshment for Thunderbird 1. Her pilots, though, were on their own.

Scott and John remained in the cockpit doing the usual post-flight chores until Alan, too, had docked in. Then, with both silos sealed and secure, Scott unstrapped and rose from his chair. Stretching briefly, he turned to offer John a hand up, which the other accepted after only a second's delay.

They didn't speak much at first, being rubbery-slack with exhaustion. But their slightly red-eyed mother was waiting outside, at the safety end of that damaged steel gantry, and this rather brightened things up. Better yet, she'd brought food.

All at once, the noise, clamor and weariness faded away. Scott's stride lengthened and his pace picked up. Almost running, he crossed the distance from aircraft to silo wall in Olympic-trial time.

"Hey, mom," he said, receiving a tight hug and a napkin-wrapped breakfast sandwich; bacon, egg and cheese on a crisply browned bagel. John got a longer hug, but less food (mostly because he'd never liked eating in non-standard areas). Still, the blond astronaut made no complaint about the box of cereal she brought him, or the extra-long embrace, either.

"Come on, you two," she said, smiling up at her tall, handsome sons. "Let's go get Alan and head on inside. You've _got_ to be ready to drop."

Scott looked at John, then back at their deeply concerned mother. Joking a little, he swallowed a mouthful of food and said,

"I'm good… but _he's_ dead on his feet. Comes from all of that junk food and computer time. Makes you weak."

Uh-huh. Had John not had his left arm up to the elbow in a box of Froot Loops, he might have made a very rude gesture. Did so, anyway, using his other hand and shielding the motion from mom with the cereal box. Mostly.

_"John!"_ She snapped fiercely. "Street gestures and gutter language have no place in this house!"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, trying to sound contrite. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

Scott, meanwhile, had turned very pink. Trying not to laugh, and draw her wrath onto himself, probably.

"I certainly hope so," Lucinda continued indignantly. "Just because I've been away on a few concert tours is no reason to have the lot of you reverting to savagery. Now, apologize to your brother! Look at him… you can _see_ how deeply affected he is!"

John did look, nearly causing his brother to convulse with laughter and spit out that mouthful of sandwich. Well, there was more than one way to get a point across. Picking a language he was certain their mother didn't comprehend, John placed a hand over his heart, bowed low and said about fifteen eye-popping things; any of which would have gotten him flogged with cane rods in the lands of Araby or Persia.

"What language is that?" asked his mother, all at once terribly suspicious.

"Farsi. I opened up my heart, mom, and I'm sure Scott understands exactly what I meant."

"_Ohhhh_, yeah," said his older brother, stepping nearer to give John's slender back a vigorous slap. "And may I say, thank you, John, for expanding my word bank like that. I've just been enriched in ways I didn't even realize were possible."

"My pleasure," the astronaut calmly replied.

"Never mind," their mother decided, glaring from one quarrelsome son to the other with narrowed blue eyes. "I'll go get Alan, myself. You two are headed for showers and bed. _Now._ Move it. And no more fighting behind my back, either!"

So saying, she quick-marched them onto separate elevators; kissing both young men on the cheek before the pneumatic doors whooshed shut. Then, alone once more, Lucy sighed. Sometimes, being the mother of six active boys was a hair-tearing emotional marathon.

She loved her sons deeply, though, and would never leave them again… especially now that she'd experienced the "family business".

* * *

Elsewhere, just as a mighty quantum entity arranged events in a nearby, linked realm, the Hood moved a few key pieces of his own. Yes, his hostaged pilot had escaped him, the satellite was shut down, and several host bodies were out of commission. But Belaghant was a man of deep pockets and insidious thought. His resources were not yet ended, as the Tracy family would soon learn, to their cost.

* * *

_Brazil, a few hours past nightfall-_

The bullet-scarred news van bounced and creaked along an unpaved jungle road, heading for Rio de Janeiro… unless they'd missed a few turns in the darkness. Hard to tell, because the headlights didn't work, and Abe Lieberson preferred to conserve his camera-flash for dangerous river crossings and rickety bridges.

Perhaps the rainforest was usually noisy, but tended to quiet when presented with ancient, wheezing Volkswagen vans. Or maybe the animals, too, were entranced by the bands of glowing color which twisted and flickered high overhead. Pink, blue and lavendar, waving like wind-rippled veils. Certainly Virgil had never seen anything like it; great, whipping streaks of aurorae, setting chill fire to tropical skies.

"Wow," he said, wishing for paints and a canvas. Gustav Holst's _Jupiter, Bringer of Jollity_ kept swirling through his head, its mighty surges and trills somehow matching that glorious, silent display.

"That's the best you can do?" Taylor remarked, from her position beside him at the rear of the van. "Wow? Not exactly a poet, are you, Cupcake?"

Virgil shrugged and smiled, though she couldn't well see him.

"I describe things with paint and music, not words," he told her. Then he frowned, adding, "Actually, I don't think any of us are much good at that."

"Us?" Cindy was only a vague silhouette in the wet jungle darkness, but she managed to convey sudden, sharp interest, anyhow.

"My brothers and me. Us. Scott maybe _used_ to express himself pretty well… but lately it's all jargon and pilot-speak. John's kind of… different. You've probably interviewed him for WNN once or twice. He's pretty much all math and acronyms. Tell you what… you get him and a couple of other astronauts together in one room and all you hear is numbers and code letters. But they _all_ use their hands when they talk about flying; like it's impossible to describe a takeoff or landing with just words."

Taylor's voice held a smile when she said,

"Okay, that's two: Scott and John. What about the rest of your pre-verbal, troglodyte siblings?"

Took him a minute to reply, because the van jounced over a deep pothole, and they nearly fell out. But when he and the reporter were securely in place again, Virgil squinted up at a shifting band of opaline light and said,

"There's me, of course, but we already know that I don't have a gift for verbal slickery, as Grandma would put it. So that brings up Gordon. He really _does_ like to talk; about anything, any time. The problem is shutting him up, but I don't know that he ever says anything deep or inspiring."

"Gordon's the Olympic swimmer, right?" Cindy probed, in what she hoped was a neutral voice.

"Yup. And he'll tell you all about it, too, if you've got a few months. Nice kid, though. Brave as anything, and won't ever quit, no matter what. I mean, d*mn… I've seen him… seen him, um…"

Cindy Taylor's head cocked to one side, and her investigative antennae started to tingle. Out of the moist, silky darkness, her voice urged,

"You've seen him do some pretty amazing things, Virgil?"

The pilot hesitated because, yes, he had. Gordon Tracy was nearly as strong as Virgil himself, and bull-headed, _stupid_-brave. Apt to rush in where no one with sense had any business, eager to help save the day. The h*ll of it was, people that recklessly daring tended to get themselves killed in a hurry.

But Cindy was waiting for an answer, and International Rescue had to remain secret, so…

"Yeah," Virgil said cautiously. "I have. He's pushed himself in race after race, like he's always trying to prove something. That third gold medal, a few years back…? He collapsed off camera right afterward. I mean passed out cold, and _still_ took part in the 400-meter relay, half an hour later. Helped win it, too. He's really something."

Cindy chuckled, shaking her head.

"That's for sure," she said. "He asked me out right after the post-relay interview. This dripping-wet, seventeen-year-old _kid._ I couldn't believe it."

"Sounds like Gordon," Virgil laughed. "What'd you say?"

"_No_, of course. I'm not a cradle-robber… but I was nice about it. For me, anyhow."

Which probably meant that she hadn't pulled a gun on him. Weirdly enough, though, Virgil was starting to like Cindy Taylor. He never got a chance to tell her about his two youngest brothers, Alan and Ricky, because all at once the van squealed to a rattling, unhealthy stop.

The reporter and pilot rose up and turned, proceeding at a half-crouch to the front of their grumbling vehicle.

"What's happened, Abe?" Cindy asked the cameraman, who was fishing around on the cluttered floor for his flash, again.

"Nothing, Sweetie. Just thought I saw something, is all, back when that really bright aurora hit. Hang on…"

Finally locating the big, square camera-flash, Abe held it out the window, facing forward. Then he pressed a red button on its plastic back, causing the light's capacitor to whine like a mosquito, charging up. When he removed his finger, the light flared, revealing a mighty thicket of sap-dripping, newly-felled trees. They lay like a tangled wall across the dirt road, blocking further passage. Darkness returned an instant later, but the image was hard-burnt in everyone's mind.

"Looks like the end of the line, darlings," Abe told Cindy and Virgil, joking a little to hide his own nervousness. "What do we do, now?"

* * *

_Thunderbird 2, still escorted by fighter jets, like a shark in a school of darting remoras-_

Quite a ways off, meanwhile, Gordon and Brains approached the Brazilian tank-farm inferno. The scene was utterly hellish, generating a storm of near-constant explosions and towering geysers of flame. A bright orange glow shone from the nearby river and roiling smoke clouds, casting weird shadows and confusing the eye.

Tiny figures with hoses, trucks and fire boats struggled to bring the roaring blaze under control. It had grown to monstrous proportions, though; sparked by a ravaging microwave beam and spreading to the jungle and outbuildings.

Gordon remained in contact with Island Base as he and Brains banked across the burning fuel depot, hanging hard in their seat straps as they flashed past the fighter planes.

_"What's it look like, son?"_ his father asked him.

"Bad. As in ninety percent of the visible, above-ground structures are fully involved, and the d*mn rainforest's about to go up. We should have been here an hour ago…!"

_"Are you requesting assistance?"_ Jeff asked, adding, _"Scott and John have just arrived. I can refuel and quick-turn Thunderbird 1, if need be."_

"Just a second, dad… I'll get right back to you on that one."

Muting the comm, Gordon looked across Thunderbird 2's flame-lit cockpit at Hackenbacker, who was nervously plucking his lip.

"What do you think, Brains… Call out the cavalry?"

But the engineer shook his head.

"N- No. Your brothers are, ah… are already exhausted. It w- wouldn't be safe to, ah… to push them much farther. W- We can handle this one, ourselves, G- Gordon. I'm, ah… I'm sure of it."

"Right." Nodding once, Gordon keyed up the comm. "Island Base from Thunderbird 2. You there, dad?"

_"Go ahead, Thunderbird 2."_

"Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. We got this. Might take a bit longer than usual, is all."

"_Understood, Thunderbird 2. Stay on the line, and let me know immediately, if anything changes. I'll fly there, myself, if I have to."_

Of course, no-one noticed a small, furtive figure sneaking toward the tank farm's main pump house. They could not see the fanatic yellow gleam in the man's eyes, nor hear the fatal instructions which drove him. All that Gordon and Brains knew, as they banked around for a closer pass and engaged their over-taxed foam system, was that they had work to do.

* * *

_Midworld, on the shore of a dim, haunted tarn-_

Foul-smelling lake mud slapped and sucked at their feet. Water swirled and burbled, hardly audible over the monster's many-throated scream. A keen wind knifed across the turbulent surface, reeking of marsh gas and death.

Doing his best to ignore it all, Frodle spelled up a ball of flickering mage-light. It rose like a sputtering green firework, and in its glow, they did battle. Ice bolts hadn't proven effective, so Drehn switched to casting magickal nets; using the sparking strands to entangle a seething forest of muddy necks.

Of course, the wretched things just oozed through and reformed again with wet, squelching pops, but the process took awhile and kept at least part of this monstrous sending out of the fight. Hovering nearby, the halfling launched a volley of fire bolts, scorching and cracking the beast's slimy flanks. Bits of it crumbled like a drying sand castle, but the rest built up faster than Frodle could shoot.

Glud handled matters his own way. He stood on a tall granite boulder, fending off attacks with his shield and spear. Didn't much harm the beast, until he discovered that a lance plunged in just the right way could hook a skull and rip it free of its mud-coated head. Just like gaffing a fish, really.

Unfortunately, there were dozens more for each one he destroyed, hissing down at the half-orc like an animate mudslide. Battle like this was rare, indeed, and Glud enjoyed every moment; bellowing lyrics to describe each block and attack.

Then the mud-monster heaped itself up to a towering height and surged forward, burying Glud beneath an avalanche of moldering slime, rusted blades and stone cobbles. The warrior was swept from his perch and onto the shore, his mouth, nose and throat packed with icy muck. Battered and disoriented, he would surely have suffocated, had Britte not rushed to his aid.

Tumbling from Dapple's broad back, she ran to the mass of heaving dank mud and began slashing at it with Gawain's long knife. With her other hand, Britte sketched the old spell-sign she'd always used to muck out the village pig sties and ox barns.

"Out!" she commanded, making a sudden, sharp flinging gesture, as though tossing a stone in the lake. And strangely enough, the stuff moved, just like the soggy straw and rank manure always had, back home.

"Out!" she repeated, sending more of the shrieking mud-beast back to its watery home. Glud reappeared just a few moments later, excavated by Britte's simple croft-magick. The halfling and elf raced in to defend her retreat, as she hauled Glud away from the icy shore of Tarn Wathelyne.

"Breathe," she urged him, employing the sort of midwifery spell that brought life back to still-born lambs and wee calves. The half-orc convulsed like a landed fish and began coughing up mud, which Britte helped along by pounding his back. She was a well-muscled girl, and her blows were quite doughty. She had him breathing right as rain in less than an eye-blink (to save his poor spine, if nothing else).

Meanwhile, Gawain swam deeper and deeper, magickally aided by Frodle's spells of long breath and clear seeing. Overhead, all was noise and clash and tumult. Below the surface, there was only cold water, shifting slime and up-rushing gas.

From here, he could see that the monster had neither legs nor a tail, but sprouted directly from a lake bed covered in ancient bones, swords and armour. It looked like a battle-field on the slopes of a roiling mud volcano.

His first clue to the lich-heart's location was a purple, scabrous glow coming from the muck monster's right flank. That the beast was not intelligent was quite obvious, for it didn't detect or attack him (though he had to stay clear of new-sprouting, blade-fanged heads). Of course, his presence might have been masked by the legion of current-swept dead things which drifted and tossed all about. Stroke of luck, if so.

The terrible cold and pressure were another matter. As Gawain kicked and stroked toward that foul purple gleam, the lake waters became murky and ice-needled; sharp as sword blades to swim through. They also crushed tight, as though trying to smash him. Frodle's spell did not cover this aspect of swimming, but Gawain could hardly pop upward and demand better mage-craft. No time.

Instead, he moved faster, kicking into an upright posture when at last he reached the beast's side. Pulled his sword from its sheathe without getting too badly tangled, and then thrust the blade toward the violet glow shining like thieves-light through that mountain of slime.

His point struck something heavy and hard, sending a jolt of fierce, blinding cold along the blade to his hand and left arm. Instantly, Gawain went numb, but the heart did not shatter or shift position, even. Rather, he was flung back several yards through the water.

Summoning courage, he re-sheathed the sword, swam close and then plunged his arm deep into the monster's flank. Past the elbow and halfway to his left shoulder he thrust, groping after a spark of wretched pale corpse-light. Then his hand closed around something so frigid that it all but killed him.

Perhaps because he was too stubborn or daft to let go, Gawain held tight and then pulled with all of his strength, ripping forth the lich-heart. Immediately, great, thudding showers of mud began to slap at the surface above, making noise like a violent hailstorm. The lich-heart throbbed and writhed in his grip, impossibly heavy for something so small. Worse, it slashed his palm, shedding blood which it drew in and fed on like some fist-sized stone vampire.

Rocks, slime and rust drifted past, returning to their troubled sleep on the bed of Tarn Wathelyne. Gawain went the other way. With the shredded last bits of his strength, he kicked for the surface, lich-heart in hand. But it was like trying to swim whilst carrying a massive ballista stone.

Out on the lake shore, Frodle dodged great slimy bombs of collapsing mud. Sensing Gawain's need, he worked a spell of item retrieval, focusing on the knight's sword belt and blade. Dangerous, because the leather might simply have snapped or the buckle unsprung, but instead his human friend was lifted clear of the water along with the summoned gear. Then the knight was deposited… coughing, bloodied and cold… on the beach at Frodle's feet.

Britte rushed forward at once, Dapple's hair-flecked blanket in one hand. Thinking quickly, she flung the cloth around her half-conscious lord, patting him down and uttering every spell of crop and livestock blessing she knew. But Britte's magick was the ordinary, everyday, common sort, used to strengthen a nursing ewe or a mother in childbed. It could not overcome the lich-heart's dark power. Nor could Sir Gawain release the thing, which had sent long, barbed needles through his left palm and arm, draining him to the point of death. Fortunately, there were others present with less-common skills.

"Glud!" called the elf, moving forward, "get your axe. We'll hew off the hand, if necessary, but first let me try something else."

After all, he'd been raised in the Caverns, among a people who kept slaves and sacrificed mortals to their goddess of darkness and bloodlust. As Glud lumbered over, axe poised and ready, Drehn spoke a terrible word. Sharp and obsidian black as an altar knife, it was; meant to destroy and subdue.

Then he listed the true names of every great mortal sorcerer his people had ever heard tell of, one after another. It was "Boragant" that finally did the trick, causing the foul undead heart to burst asunder, and then vanish entirely. Cut Gawain's left hand rather badly in the process, but those wounds… and the others… healed quick enough, through a combination of flaring blue light and farm-girl determination.

Allat returned soon thereafter, as some sort of tentacled, brass-plumed hippogriff, with Laney and Kel on his back. Both held great fistfuls of razor-edged feathers, which they'd been hurling like knives at the monster below.

"Britte!" cried the boy, "you should have seen us! We were fighting! In the _air!_ Even Laney was brave! She never cried at all, but threw blades like Mistress Tinker at fairing day! And Allat stooped and snapped like a nobleman's falcon! I was _flying,_ Britte!"

…And there was plenty more where that came from. She'd have listened longer, but a squire must attend to her knight, and Sir Gawain was rising now, wobbly as a day-old colt. Somewhat shyly, she waited for him to dress before helping him back into armour and harness. Bit awkward, that, for her feelings were becoming confused. Especially when he thanked her with a swift clasp and back-pat.

Britte's toes curled in her boots, and her heart pounded fiercely, but all that she did was smile and bow low, handing back the red-haired knight's shield and long knife. Once again, he carelessly mussed the top of her head. Then,

"Sir Elf," he said, turning to not-quite face Drehn, "if there was ever need f'r a transport spell, this is th' moment."

He'd heard the dreadful word of sacrifice that his friend had spoken… but chose to overcome a paladin's revulsion and wrath as best he could. Perhaps... there was more than one way to do good?

"Of y'r good courtesy, I ask that you conjure us as near as may be t' th' party of reavers. Tis a risk, I know, but much more of this…" Gawain gestured around himself at his weary, mud-spattered comrades, "…and we'll not be able to fight."

The expatriate drow would certainly be the most affected, as mage and traveler, both. Nevertheless, Drehn smiled.

"Out arms, then, and hold tight to whatever you value," he told them. "This could get a bit rough."


	29. 29: Grave Peril

Thanks for reviewing the last one, Sam and Bee, and happy barbecue, Tal. Re-edited. =)

**29: Grave Peril**

_Near midnight, at a roadblock in the Brazilian rainforest-_

The trees had been cut… not blown over, nor toppled by rain. Some of them chain-sawed near to their bases, others high up; whatever it took to get them across that narrow clay road. Nor could whoever had done this be very far off, for the splintered, slashed ends were still oozing sap, sharp and fragrant in the humid night air. But then, where had the saboteurs gone, and for how long?

As Cindy played the glow of a red LED keychain on those fallen giants, Virgil felt around for his captured weapon and cell phone. The one, he readied for use (checking to be sure that he had a bullet chambered and that the safety catch didn't stick). The other, he called home with, reaching Jeff after only two rings.

_"Tracy speaking,"_ his father snapped tensely.

"Dad, it's me."

_"Virgil?!"_

"So far, but the night is young, and stuff keeps happening."

_"This is a different number than last time. Are you with Interpol, yet?"_

"No, sir. I'm at a suspicious-looking roadblock of fallen trees. If GPS was working, I could tell you right where, or… Hold on, can't John track the cell signal? Triangulate, or something?"

Jeff's answer was delayed by muffled noises from the background. It sounded like a hand-over-the-mouthpiece conversation between his father and someone else. Maybe Kyrano or mom.

_"…Well, wake him up, then," _was the last part; probably meaning that John was about to get rolled out of bed in a quick, fast hurry.

"Dad," Virgil cut in, watching as Cindy and Abe stuffed vital gear into a pair of olive-green backpacks. "The news folks are taking things out of their van. I think they're planning to leave it and go the rest of the way on foot."

_"Is the roadblock deliberate?"_ asked his father.

"Appears to be. I mean, the trees were sawed, not uprooted."

_"Recently?"_

"Yes, sir. That'd be my guess, but nobody seems to be manning this check point. I figure maybe they don't know what road we're on, so they're moving around a lot."

Another short pause occurred, during which Virgil (nervously sifting his pockets) turned up the cell guard's black notebook. For something to do while Dad snapped orders and the news crew packed, Virgil opened the notebook and flipped through its pages, using aurorae and phone glow to light up the contents.

There were words inside, and pictures; stuff which started out as talented sketching and then, in the last few pages, turned ugly. Almost as though someone else had been moving the artist's pencil. Chillingly, among the final drawings were Thunderbirds 1, 2 and 4… or their shattered wreckage. Itemized notes, too, in a script and language he couldn't decipher.

_"Son? Virgil?"_ His father called through the phone, reclaiming the pilot's attention.

"Right here, Dad."

_"I've just been in touch with Agent Lockhart, from the CIA. He suggests that you abandon the vehicle and keep moving forward, close to the road but just out of sight. We'll have a fix on your location in a moment."_

"Yes, sir. Will do. And there's something here you're gonna need to have a look at, ASAP."

_"One thing at a time, Son. My primary concern right now is getting you to safety."_

…And Gordon, too, of course, though he couldn't say so over an unsecured line. Cindy and her cameraman returned to Virgil's side a few seconds later, moving like people with places to be. Neither seemed upset or hysterical. Quite the contrary, in fact.

"Occupational hazard," the reporter explained, once Virgil ended his phone call. Handing the pilot a honey-nut granola bar, she said, "Any news crew that can't handle bribe requests, roadblocks, natural disasters, revolution and dysentery ought to stick to the d*mn county fair and dog show circuit."

He smiled, but didn't say much at first, tearing into the proffered snack like a starving man. Then,

"CIA recommends moving alongside the road…" he mumbled between mouthfuls. "…and says we're a little off-track for Rio. No coordinates, though… Line's unsecured and someone could be listening."

Cindy settled her backpack and started walking, close by the rainforest's edge.

"Okay," she agreed, trudging off. "Government types give me mental and spiritual constipation, but maybe for once they won't screw things up _too _badly. Just in case, though, I'm keeping the news desk posted. Maybe Jake can arrange alternate transportation."

"Or _I _can," Virgil suggested, wondering how to whistle up Thunderbird 2 without raising awkward questions. He stepped along through the dim, dripping rainforest, watching for snakes, and thinking hard. But headlights appeared before an answer did; the twin, bobbing slivers of gold just visible round a distant bend in the road.

* * *

_Thunderbird 2-_

Gordon Tracy took over flying their aircraft once they reached the emergency site, leaving foam dispersal and monitor duty to Hackenbacker. Banking over the blaze from one hotspot to the next, spray nozzles hissing and engines rumbling, they began to make headway. Those fighter jets were a genuine problem, though; streaking alongside and close overhead as if International Rescue was planning to steal all their ashes and smoke, or something.

"Brains," Gordon snapped, after their fourth near-collision, "get on the line with someone from the Brazilian Air Force, and tell them to call off their dogs, before somebody out here gets hurt!"

Hackenbacker looked over at Gordon, flame glow and instrument lights flashing from his spectacles.

"I'll, ah… I'll see w- what I can do, Gordon. B- But next time, try, ah… try _asking_ me, rather than ordering."

"Sorry," the athlete grunted, too busy flying to catch much more than Brains' injured tone.

Down below, dodging and weaving amid collapsing fuel tanks and tall, whirling flame-devils, an armed figure ran for the low concrete pump house. This depot (one of the region's largest) serviced river and lumber-industry traffic, receiving high-grade fuel from a Venezuelan refinery, mostly through underground pipes.

Those pipes had been closed when the microwave beam first began tracing its fiery arc. A basic safety feature, easily reversed by an underpaid, low-status worker who'd had one conversation too many with a kind and generous "comrade".

Call him Franco. Maybe that was his name, at one time. Now he'd been scraped to an emptied shell; a living tool for the Hood. Belaghant could handle such matters in one of two ways: exerting light influence over many puppets, or total domination of one.

Now, with so very much at stake, he'd placed his full consciousness in the body of poor, deceived Franco, leaving his own physical substance stretched out on a couch in his Singapore penthouse. There was danger in so doing, but the Hood did not care what became of Franco, and he did not believe the Tracys capable of out-thinking him. Not this time, when he'd prepared so well and so long.

Utterly determined, he ignored a hellscape of screeching, sparking metal and acrid smoke to get to the pump house and scurry within. There, despite the damage to Franco's hands, Belaghant located the pipeline's red-hot steel valve wheel, then took hold and began to loosen it.

He was burnt, and that hurt, but it didn't much matter, as the pain would not long be his. What mattered was a million gallons of high-grade boat and truck fuel, jetting into those damaged and smoldering tanks. That… and the chance to bring down a Thunderbird pilot.

* * *

_Tracy Island, in Jeff's ornate, high tech office-_

John, rousted from whatever it was that served him for sleep, got to the office still barefoot, in a dark-blue WSA tee shirt and shorts. His father was there, with Mom, Kyrano and Tin-Tin.

"John," said his dad, when the astronaut strode through the teak double doors, "I need you to triangulate the location of another cell signal. Your brother's run into a roadblock."

Okay...

"We're sorry to wake you so soon, Sweetie," added his mom, managing to simultaneously pat her newly-arrived son and glare at her husband. But John merely shrugged, saying,

"Not a problem. I was half-awake, anyhow, thinking about fuel loads for the next Moon shot. I've got to get those specs turned in to Saul by Thursday, or risk losing my slot."

Lucy kept her hand on John's shoulder as he sat down at Brains' normal workstation. That felt pretty nice. More… _complete_, in some way that he didn't have time to analyze.

"Maybe so," his mother replied, "but you're giving up a rest period to help out, and we appreciate that. Don't we, Jeff?"

His grey-haired father looked as surprised as John probably did, being put on the spot that way. But Tracy senior nodded after a moment and said,

"Naturally. And John knows that, already."

Lucy's mouth pursed, slightly.

"People need to hear these things expressed, Jeff. It's important."

(This was sort of puzzling, because she'd got all bent out of shape when he'd expressed himself earlier, to Scott… but females were often strange, like that.)

"Thanks. I feel tremendously valued and accepted in the workplace," John stated a little facetiously, in order to wrap up his parents' debate.

Then, following up the second-to-last call on his father's cell phone, John got to work. On the big wall monitor, meanwhile, Thunderbird 2's cockpit and hull cams were transmitting visions of fiery ruin. Made it tough to concentrate, especially as Gordon was becoming quite vocally bothered by his unwanted escort.

_'on vox, mom & tin-tin in room,'_ John typed out; opening a line to his brother's half of the instrument panel. Just, you know, to prevent pink faces and scathing long lectures.

_'thnx,'_ Gordon came back, an instant later. _'looking fr long-range target practice?'_

John smiled at the letters and flashing cursor, which to him meant "Gordon" far more than the figure up front on that wall screen did. Working at Virgil's situation with one hand, he typed back with the other,

_'unsure how many strings tied to Brazil's top wing-nuts, but will commence pulling. meantime, fly safe.'_

It was just about then that a truly massive explosion occurred, ending the feed from Thunderbird 2 in a snowstorm of hissing white static.

"Oh, sh*t," John breathed, forgetting all about Lucy and pale, worried TinTin.

* * *

_Thunderbird 2-_

The cargolifter's force shield cut on automatically, as an enormous fireball and concussive shockwave engulfed Bird and jets, together. Thunderbird 2 was flung violently upward and back, tipping almost to the point of heeling right over.

The unlucky jet fighters were blasted clean out of the sky, popping ejected pilots like rocketing wine corks. Most would land in the smoldering rainforest, parachutes tangled amid the tall trees. But one drifted helplessly down into chaos.

"What happened?" Gordon shouted, fighting to regain control of Thunderbird 2. "What the h*ll was that?!"

"M- More fuel, probably leaked from, ah… from a burst pipe," said Brains, nervously removing and wiping his glasses. "The fire m- may have gotten intense enough to, ah… to touch off th- that underground refinery p- pipeline."

Gordon nodded, wrestling hard with the Bird's stubborn yoke. It was approximately as easy as trying to steer an angry polar bear with a two-handed grip on its snout. Lots of unforgiving inertia, there.

"Systems check?" he requested, like Virgil would have done.

Hackenbacker probably said something, and it might even have sounded important. Unfortunately, all that Gordon registered was a sudden downed-pilot emergency beacon, coming right from the middle of beautiful, downtown Hades.

"Uh-oh," he said. "Brains…"

"No!" the engineer snapped. "F- For your family's sake, Gordon, I, ah… I can't allow you t- to take such a dangerous risk."

But the young athlete was already unstrapped and rising. Staring hard at Brains, he said,

"I didn't ask. I'm telling you. The guy needs help. Now, grab the yoke, follow that beacon, and get ready to lower the basket."

He strode from the cockpit before Brains could reply. Still, the engineer might simply have turned the Bird round and headed for home… but a burst of frantic, broken English stopped him cold. The voice was a woman's.

_"Captain Marina Dos Santos… requesting if possible, please for assist."_

"W- We're on our way," Brains radioed in response to the faint SOS. "Stand by for, ah… for a lowered r- rescue basket, Captain."

And then, in a quiet mutter,

"Heaven help all of us."

In the cavernous hold, meanwhile, Gordon struggled into a helmet, air-tank and silvery asbestos fire suit. Difficult for one man to manage, but Brains had his hands full, up front. Still, what Gordon wouldn't have traded for a bit of help donning that d*mned, balky gear. And that was only the start.

His steel-mesh rescue basket was locked into place above Thunderbird 2's lower hatch; held firm against the aircraft's constant, rumbling motion by a set of ratcheted anchors and rods. The cockpit and base chatter were piped into the hold and his helmet, so Gordon heard Captain Dos Santos' mayday and Brains' reply, followed by contact from dad, back home.

His father didn't much care for the situation, but he understood the need. Better, he was able to help coordinate with the Brazilian fire-fighting crew. Captain Dos Santos had ejected into an area too cluttered for the basket and winch. As John explained to her, in much better Portuguese than Brains or Gordon could muster, she was going to have to cross about thirty-five yards of crumbling, hose-dampened wreckage to reach her pick-up spot.

Gordon only half followed the conversation, busy as he was assembling needed equipment, and then clambering into the basket. Funny, the red-head thought, that the last time he'd used it, he'd been rescuing John and that space-doctor friend of his… what's her name… Linda.

"Ready," he announced, as soon as he actually was. Brains replied over the hold's loudspeaker system, saying,

_"Un- Understood, Gordon. Be, ah… Be very c- careful out there. It isn't just fire and explosion we're, ah… we're dealing with, here. There's also a m- mental energy field p- present, like the kind that m- manipulated you and, ah… and your brother."_

"Which one?" Gordon muttered. (Old family joke.)

Then the locking bars and anchors retracted with a sharp, ringing clatter, allowing his basket perch to swing free. It began to spin and sway, making Gordon regret his earlier roast-beef sandwich. The hold doors opened next; first splitting, then gaping wide upon scorching updrafts, roaring chaos and wild orange flame-glow.

He'd certainly been lowered close to burning buildings before, but never anything so vast or engulfed… and yet somewhere down there, a pilot waited for rescue. So Gordon nodded, crossed himself, and said,

"Lower away, Brains… and have that noise-maker ready, just in case our friend really is behind all this."

_"FAB. H- Hold tight, Gordon. Dos Santos will start, ah… start across just as s- soon as the fireboat g- gets those flames down, a little."_

Thousands of miles away, Jeff's office was becoming quite crowded. Scott had come into the room, along with Alan and (when the crib monitor picked up his crying) small Ricky.

John was busy with an idea… a way to further boost Hackenbacker's original counter-signal… and Jeff was in close contact with the CIA, Interpol and Brazilian disaster authorities. But everyone else was at nervous loose ends. Thunderbird 1 might have been launched, but her maintenance wasn't complete, making her unsafe to fly. Otherwise, Scott would have been headed for South America. As the situation stood, though, all he could do was watch.

Alan paced and fidgeted, took Ricky from TinTin and then gave him back; never still, never easy. He, too, very much wanted to help, rather than just standing by. Because Gordon, y'know, was a walking disaster; about as safe as Rick with a handful of firecrackers… And TinTin looked like someone had just frickin' stabbed her.

A little clumsily, Alan put his arm around her shoulders, pretending not to notice when the girl's tears began wetting his shirt.

"S'okay, T," he whispered. "We've made it through worse than this, and come up smiling."

In Brazil, at that moment, the basket descended past hammering water cannons and storms of slippery foam. Gordon had on an asbestos survival suit, but all those explosions and wavering fire-devils were nerve-wracking, anyway. He was being lowered into what Brains called a "clear spot". Relative term, obviously, because all that Gordon could see were flame-weakened buildings and glowering coals.

Above him, Thunderbird 2 rumbled and thrummed, looking as big as a displaced mountain. The flood-lit "2" on her underside shone like a beacon, and not just for him. Captain Dos Santos, limping through a landscape of charred, dripping wreckage, had to be thinking the same thing.

He spotted her, jolting along at a wounded hopping pace, just before his basket rattled onto the ground. Just before somebody else opened fire on both of them.

Medium caliber bullets sounded quite strange when ripping past like a swarm of wild bees. They popped and screeched against metal, rather than booming aloud… and when striking flesh, they punctured and burned.

* * *

_Midworld, by a shattered forest trading post-_

The transport spell seized children, horses, mages and warriors, and hurled them wildly through space. The process was deeply wrenching, even without ley-lines to give the travelers a sense of their altered location. Nor was there time to recover.

They'd been dropped in the midst of a nearly-lost battle. Most of the reavers were already dead, along with several captives and traders. Others, still dragging their chains, had formed a tight circle, using whatever they had to defend themselves. Voreig stood among them, whip-scarred and fierce.

He'd managed to rip one hand free of his rusted manacles, and stood whirling the chain over his head like a mace. Not that the improvised weapon did him much good.

For what the prisoners faced, what had reduced most of their number to carbonized lumps, was a fiend. About fifteen feet tall and roughly man-like, it was, with brittle black skin that cracked at each movement, revealing the searing magma within. Its eyes were mere pinholes, its mouth a great, jagged slash. And whenever the wind blew, its scent was like tinder and steel.

Though powerfully built, the giant moved and struck with horrible speed. Its huge hands smashed buildings, wagons and donkeys, and then hurled the torn shreds at the tiny band of survivors. Its cry was a high, shrilling whine, like a dagger blade through the ears. On its stony chest hung one half of a bronze medallion, all that remained of its ancient forbidding. On the blood-spattered ground lay the other half, along with the cavern from which this horror had risen.

It was demonic in origin, drawn to guilt and shame and terrible deeds. Naturally, it had first savaged the reavers, leaving their captives and creatures for last. Then the rescue party arrived, giving the fiend a new target: Drehn.

Sensing the newly-come elf, it pivoted to stalk him; moving through the wreckage as low and fluidly as a cat. Glud leapt immediately into the fight, racing to Voreig's side with a joyous howl. Behind him, Allat transformed into some kind of towering, rubbery tree. Seizing Kel and Laney in his topmost branches, the shape-changer lifted them high out of danger while limbs farther down lashed out like scorpions.

Britte summoned a crop-watering rain shower, raising great clouds of billowing steam from the fiend's cracked, stony hide and blistering magma. It came on, anyhow, tasting the drow's recent death-curse, even through fog and diversion.

Frodle raised his staff, shouting words of banning over the fiend's high-pitched shrieks. But he couldn't stop that relentless advance, any better than Gawain's new squire had.

"Drehn, work no magick!" the scholar called out. "It will draw your soul through the lines of power!"

This meant that the elf could not transport to safety, even if he'd still had the strength. He could lure it away from the captives, though, by constantly backing and dodging; flitting from crushed wagon to splintered tree stump and snowy rock pile like a swift, restless ghost. Not forever, though. Not even for long, given his weary condition.

Bidding the elf to seek cover, Sir Gawain took a deep breath and a firmer grip on shield and spear. Beneath him, Blanchard trembled but stood firm; grunting and raking the earth.

"Brave lad," Gawain murmured, nerving himself and the horse with a quickly sketched sign of protection. It glimmered and sparked, hanging in midair like dust in a shaft of warm sunlight.

Then the knight couched his lance, sat a bit forward in the saddle, angled his boots well down in the stirrups, and put spurs to the horse. Blanchard reared up, and then thundered into a powerful gallop, hurtling corpses and wagon parts; spattering ashes and snow. The fiend chuckled as they rushed toward each other; man, horse and metal on one side, supernatural death on the other.

Binding spells sizzled and cracked overhead, splitting the twilit sky. Rain hissed down and rubbery tree roots shot up to entangle the monster's fiery legs. Glud and Voreig attacked from both sides, shouting in unison. But then, just before Gawain's spear would have smashed upon crackling hide, the thing leapt.

Entirely over his head, it pounced, landing on the other side as lithe as a griffin. Ripping a shattered wagon spar off of the ground, it whirled in place, bringing its weapon around like a spiked club. The spar struck Blanchard's right flank with a horrible crunching sound, gouging it deeply. Screaming wildly, the warhorse floundered.

Gawain lunged clear of Blanchard's collapse, his mind a flurry of white-hot anguish and fury. Just like the battle in Faerie, it felt. Only this time, the knight wasn't alone. He got his sword out and shield up as his companions rushed in from all sides. Meanwhile, still chuckling, the fiend stalked gracefully forward. It was then that Gawain spotted something lying in the mud about a yard in front of him. Half a medallion, bearing part of a high-elven sigil.

Perhaps he'd done stupider things; couldn't recall any, though. With the monster bearing down and a screaming horse at his back, with his companions in danger, Gawain threw down his sword and dashed to pick up the broken medallion. He was seized himself, an instant later, caught in a fiery, smashing-tight grip.


	30. 30: Ambuscade

Went to my mom's house for Will and Emmy's birthday party! Edited.

**30: Ambuscade**

_At a burning tank farm, beyond the small town of Altaplano, Brazil-_

Gordon Tracy did not have a sidearm. To have carried bullets and weaponry into the midst of a blazing fuel depot would have been utterly stupid. Get your hip blown off, that way.

On the other hand, Gordon was now being shot at by someone much less sensible. Worse, he had no way at all to defend himself or the injured Brazilian pilot. Bit of a situation, that.

Bullets cracked and spanged, striking the basket and Gordon himself. Felt weird, like one of those one-knuckled punches his older brothers liked to deliver, but followed by hot, searing pain and a startling flow of dark blood. Arm. He'd been hit on the right arm, close to his elbow.

Gordon hunkered down as well as he could, trying to keep some of that wet, smoky wreckage between himself and the shooter while pressing a hand to his wound. Question was, how many shots had been fired, and was there time, while the coward reloaded, to reach and assist Captain Dos Santos?

Five, he thought. Definitely, Gordon could recall the pop and whine of five bullets… which left one to nine more, depending on the size of the gun he was facing. The discharge had sounded small caliber, meaning plentiful ammo, but through chaos and fire, it was tough to be sure.

_"Gordon!"_ Brains' shrill voice rang through his helmet, together with Jeff's calmer, more measured tones. _"Gordon, ac- according to my, ah… my sensors, you've been shot, twice. Can you hear m- me? Are you able to, ah… to r- respond?"_

Twice? But, he'd only felt one impact. Where was the other wound, and how badly was it bleeding? Wearing a d*mn fire-suit made it almost impossible to tell.

_"Gordon?!"_

"I'm fine, Brains. Just taking stock of the situation, is all. What about Dos Santos?" No sense starting a panic, was there?

_"Keeping l- low, for the moment. She heard the, ah… the shots being fired, but wasn't hit."_

Then, from his father,

_"Son, stay down. Your brother's hacked into one of the fireboats, and he thinks he can redirect its water jets to pin down your assailant. In the meantime, we're launching Thunderbird 1 with Scott and Alan aboard. She's fit enough to get there in a hurry, and Scott feels he can compensate for any mechanical issues. Hang on, Son."_

Yeah… that he could probably manage even while wounded, if he was willing to stay crouched behind a twisted, wet mass of fuel-reeking steel and just wait to be rescued. Orange flames leapt everywhere else, though; high and hungry. And Marina Dos Santos was out there, somewhere, prevented from reaching safety by one murderous jackass with a gun.

By this time, Gordon was feeling quite shaky and cold. Nevertheless, he worked himself into position to snap loose the rescue basket's long metal gaffing pole; his only real weapon. His motions drew another pistol shot, which in turn brought down roaring columns of water; blasting like cannon fire at the gunman's presumed location.

It was too noisy to hear much else, including Brains' shouted instructions and his own weakened heartbeat. Then something struck at Gordon's head like a club. No, not his head… at his mind, commanding the wounded young athlete to stand up.

* * *

_In the damp, steaming rainforest, outside of Altaplano-_

Now there was distant flame-glow along with those cold, shifting ribbons of light. But there were also a set of approaching high-beams, and these mattered more than somebody else's fire.

Unconsciously commanding, Virgil held up a quieting hand, waving Cindy and Abe away from the edge of the road. They hadn't been spotted yet… he was willing to bet the ranch and his trust fund on that… but there was no way to tell who was coming, either, or quite what they had in mind.

Uniforms wouldn't necessarily mean safety, Virgil knew. After all, the police back in Altaplano had sported decently-pressed khakis. Neither did the type of vehicle (a slow-moving sedan, he thought; color unknown). All Virgil trusted was a glance at the driver's eyes, or his father's go-ahead.

"I could step out by the road and show a little leg," Cindy joked acidly, impatient with Virgil's delay. But,

"Sweetie, you haven't mowed those things in a month! They'd scream in shock and drive faster," her cameraman mocked.

Virgil was thinking too hard to pay much attention. He didn't want to risk pinpointing himself with another phone call. Not with possible hostiles so close…

"Tell you what, "he whispered, watching the bobbing twin headlights and listening to the vehicle's wavering engine growl. "Why don't we let 'em on past? They'll still have to stop at the roadblock and come back this way, and maybe if they're real quick about it, they already knew it was there."

From the weirdly lit semi-gloom, Taylor's voice said,

"Or maybe it means that they're just as alarmed by a sudden roadblock as we are, Cupcake. Around here, people don't sit around waiting for the other hobnail to drop. They duck and cover, or run like h3ll."

Abe disagreed, saying,

"Right now, we're fairly safe, Cin, free to go where we please. Flag down that car and anything could happen, most of it bad. Unless it's my Aunt Pearl leading a Rowdy Blue-Hairs tour group, I'm staying put."

The reporter sighed.

"Fine," she snapped. "We let it go past, but I'm running out of snack food for the dark lord of hunger, over here. Not to mention for us. The next thing I'm serving is _you,_ Lieberson."

There was plenty more in that sarcastic, back-biting vein, but everyone fell silent as the vehicle drew near and purred slowly by them. Just in time, Virgil saw the dim, reddened flashlight that someone inside was using to search the side of the road.

"Down!" he hissed, dropping into a wet, insect-and-vermin filled ditch.

* * *

_Midworld, near dawn, by the burnt-out shell of a forest trading post-_

He was being roasted and crushed, the terrible heat spreading inward as that massive hand clenched tight, cracking his ribs and denting his ill-fitting breastplate. With very little ability left to think or act, Gawain slammed the bronze medal-half that he'd picked up against the portion still worn by his attacker.

At the same instant, his friends and squire risked life, limbs and spirit to save him. Drehn magnified Britte's shower to create a wild, drenching storm. Glud and Voreig hewed with axes and clubs at the monster's rocky-skinned sides. Small jets and spurts of magma set their clothing and hair on fire, once or twice, but the rain saw to that soon enough.

Not so easily healed was the elf's sudden weakness. All at once savagely drained, he could hardly stand upright or move. Yet he continued his spell-casting. Meanwhile, Britte ran forward to take up her knight's fallen sword. The weapon was heavy and awkward to wield, at first. Then it shifted its length and its balance in the wondering squire's grasp, becoming perfect in less than an eye-blink.

Swinging the blade two-handed, she charged forward with a loud, wordless cry, attacking a steaming, flexed knee. The halfling struck with magick. Lifting his staff, Frodle shouted a spell he'd drawn from his tome; the self-same High-Elven binding charm which had trapped this fiend in the first place.

Through storm-winds and rain, through the clash of arms upon half-molten monster, his shouted words rose. Swirling and sparking, Frodle's binding magick lit up the air, then shot across the clearing to strike the broken medallion. Gawain held on, somehow keeping the bronze artifact together though he couldn't well see or much think.

Everything happened at once, then. Repeated attacks, lashing rain and ancient binding words struck swiftly and true. The fiend howled aloud. Bat-like wings burst from its shoulders, flapping frantically as it tried to escape. Its hands clenched spasmodically, nearly snapping Gawain's spine. By the time it dropped him, the knight was already unconscious.

Beside him, the fiend seemed to crumple, blacken and shrink; like a twist of burning paper. Its high, keening wails were intelligent and desperate, and they literally scarred the mind. Frodle kept up the pressure, slowly pinning the vile creature with magickal bonds. Victory (if you could call it that) came suddenly, leaving shock and destruction in its wake.

Afterward, it was all they could manage to spell themselves east, back to the house of Glud's mother.


	31. 31: Narrow Escape

Thank you, Tikatu, Bee and Sam, for reviewing. I truly appreciate your feedback!

**31: Narrow Escape**

_Brazil, at a violently burning riverside fuel depot-_

Flames leapt. Water-jets roared like weapons-grade cataracts, while a dull-orange gleam bounced back from the roiling overhead smoke. Tortured metal boomed, shrieked and crumpled, playing weird counterpoint to the noise of explosion and fire, and the constant low thrumming of Thunderbird 2.

Not long before, there'd been gunshots, as well, but the pistol hadn't spoken for several minutes, during which time Gordon Tracy stanched his wound (the one he could see) and fought to refuse a command.

_'Stand up,'_ he'd been told; not aloud, but inside his increasingly wobbly thoughts. But the athlete shook his helmeted head, because to stand would have made him a better target, and he'd been hit twice, already. Cold he was; and probably bleeding from someplace less obvious.

_'Stand, d*mn you!'_

Yeah. As John would have put it: not just no, but _h3ll_, no. Gordon clenched his teeth, just as hard as his left hand was clamped to that ragged hole in his Kevlar and Nomex-clad arm.

_"Gordon,"_ Brains' voice crackled through his helmet, _"C- Captain Dos Santos is going to, ah… to t- try again for the basket. Be r- ready to assist her and, ah… and then stand by to be winched b- back aboard."_

Not a good time, he wanted to say, but the pain and pressure grinding down on his mind wouldn't allow him to speak. Courage is a decision; a stubborn, determined shoving away of fear and self-interest. Gordon hitched himself around to a position from which he could better see the surrounding wasteland, but was still fairly sheltered. Only when the downed pilot's lurching, rushed figure came into view did he force himself upright.

Instantly, a fire-cracker string of pistol shots ripped through the ash-swirling air. Gordon ducked the aimed bullets, only to place himself in the path of several wild ones. More water-cannons responded, arcing across the fire like roaring-bright serpents, but too slowly; nowhere near the speed of a dodging assassin.

Two separate figures closed in on his rescue basket, both of them injured. Both of them armed. The male was a storage-facility worker with burnt hands and a snarling, yellow-eyed face. He got there just before Captain Dos Santos, whose leg was too badly wrenched to allow her much speed.

Gordon released his arm-wound for a two-handed, slippery grip on the gaffing pole. Swinging the hooked metal pole like a baseball bat, he lashed at the oncoming gunman, who dodged the wild strike and brought up a pistol.

_'Die!'_ said the voice in his head, pounding at Gordon like a spike of pure, distilled hatred and malice. He wasn't alone, though. The Brazilian fighter pilot freed her own sidearm with a rough, holster-snapping jerk, losing her balance in the process. Falling, she fired three shots, placing them close enough together to be covered by a quarter.

The possessed man was hit in mid-chest. He jerked backward, shooting wildly into the air. At the same time, Brains and John unleashed a modified blocking signal, blasting it outward through Thunderbird 2's hull transmitter. The effect was immediate, and intensely painful. Gordon might have heard worse, more disorienting noises… but he couldn't recall any, then. It was enough to make you claw your own ears off, shrill as amplified cats on helium. Very effective, too, because the voice in his head warped to a horrible, stabbing screech; like something torn away from the Earth and cast back to hell. The pressure eased a few seconds later, leaving Gordon shot-up and bleeding... and still at work.

Somehow, he hauled himself out of the basket. Pausing often to rest and reorient, Gordon staggered over the wet, settling wreckage to Marina Dos Santos, who'd been struggling bravely to rise. Fortunately, there was enough nylon webbing on her olive-drab flight suit to afford him a decent grip. Also fortunately, she had the strength to move when properly braced.

"This way, Ma'am," he gasped, indicating the basket, "and thanks very much for your help."

She grinned at him, briefly, showing a pair of dark, friendly eyes and very white teeth against cinnamon skin.

"Pleasure," she told him, speaking with a pronounced accent. "Is my fair… eh, _fault_… My fault you are here, si?"

"Your fault, no," he corrected, smiling back at her. As they eased their way across blackened debris and glimmering, color-shot puddles, Gordon added, "What else… would I be doing… on a Saturday night? Watching TV at home?"

"Ha!" she laughed, slapping his back (and pressing hard on a dark, oozing wound). "Is better, TV now… instead of have this!"

The fallen gunman was in their path and still alive, though as emptied as Sanji had been. Together, Gordon and Captain Dos Santos got the man into Thunderbird 2's rescue basket. And that about did it for the young, red-haired athlete, who was still bleeding from several gunshot wounds.

Though he fought to remain awake, Gordon lost consciousness shortly after clambering over the basket's metal-mesh side. Worse, he felt someone messing about with his helmet and suit, just as darkness took hold.

_The steaming rainforest, well beyond Altaplano, Brazil-_

Virgil Tracy's heart thundered and drummed, but he managed to keep himself still, even while crouching in dark, leech-infested water. Hadn't disturbed the surrounding foliage too much, he hoped… though the wielder of that red-masked flashlight might think he'd just startled a night stalking predator. Right?

The longest three minutes of Virgil's life passed between the time he'd flung himself down in that shallow ditch, and the last, fading sounds of a slow-prowling vehicle. Jungle noises came back somewhat later, giving Cindy the courage to whisper,

"You two okay?"

"Sweetheart," Abe's voice responded from the bushes, "If we didn't get shot at, dunked in mud, beaten, arrested and thrown out of town on a regular basis, I'd think you were losing your stuff. Cliff Notes version: I'm fine."

Added the rescued pilot, almost as cheerfully,

"I'm covered in parasites over here, and in serious need of an all-you-can-eat _anything_ bar… but otherwise, pretty good."

Dodging great peril almost always felt marvelous, filling survivors with giddy injections of wild, hot adrenaline. You could get awfully accustomed to that kind of thing, and terribly bored without it. Not that anyone present was in danger of falling asleep. Virgil and the news-folk hurried away from the roadside, starting at noises and slapping at scrabbles and itches. For some reason… stress, maybe… they were more inclined to laugh than to worry.

"You look terrible," Cindy informed Virgil, after checking him over by the light of distant flame-glare and shifting aurorae. "I mean, you were beat to h3// when we found you in Altaplano, but now…? Unless we get you cleaned up and bandaged, Cupcake, the butler's slamming the door in your face and calling the cops."

Said Virgil, still patting himself for spiders and leeches,

"We don't have a butler. Just a sort of… family friend and general assistant. He keeps things running back home, along with his daughter, TinTin."

When Cindy seemed skeptical, the pilot added,

"Seriously. My dad's a private man, and servants talk. So he figures, keep the staff small, and there's less to worry about, you see what I mean? But, um, changing the subject… Why don't you try calling International Rescue, Miss Taylor? They're in the area, after all, and we're certifiably in trouble. And they're supposed to help out when people call with a problem, aren't they?"

By this time, the three had gotten their bearings and started walking again (with a brief interruption while Abe burned off a couple of slimy dark leeches, already blood-gorged and fat). As they hurried along, Cindy took out her cell phone, weighing the risks of another call.

Would IR respond if she yelled for assistance? Would anyone _else_ pick up and pin-point her call? Virgil Tracy was just an out-of-touch wealthy playboy; used to having his whims fondled and every desire catered to. What did he know about handling genuine danger? Still… they were certainly in a fix, and if Thunderbird Fill-in-the-blank could get them out of it… h3//, why not?

So, Cindy Taylor dialed the public emergency broadcast number, texting a call to International Rescue for herself, Abe Lieberson, and one mildly charming, dead-weight rich boy.

_Midworld, in a welter of mud, cold winds and smoking, charred ruins-_

Their transport spell was not cast immediately, mostly because Drehn and the scholar were too drained to summon much magick. Also because finding a distant location had just become immensely more complicated.

In the meantime, while Glud and Voreig worked to free the remaining slaves from their shackles, Frodle and Britte saw to Sir Gawain. The knight was terribly injured, for the monster's volcanic heat had spread deep. He was also unconscious, unlike the wounded, thrashing warhorse.

Moved by its plight, Drehn wasted lifeforce to conjure a dark-elf's rough, unsympathetic repair serum; the sort that closed wounds and knit bones at great cost to the subject. Most beings, treated with the stuff, rose up horribly sore and unreasoning, but at least they rose up.

If necessary, he planned to use it on Gawain, as well; but the knight had other attendants, while his shattered steed was alone and in agony.

"Hold its jaws," Drehn said to Allat, once the shape-changer returned from delivering Kel and Laney to their newly-freed mum. He ought to have cast a peace spell, first, but simply hadn't the strength.

"Got it, Mister Sinister!"

Allat took on a multi-tentacled muscular form; something squat and tough-skinned that could fasten itself to the muddy ground and seize hold of the flailing horse without too much risk. Then he flexed his many broad tentacles, bringing Blanchard's white head up and around, and prying its foaming jaws apart.

Muttering,

"I'm sorry. I wish I knew how to do better," Drehn reached across Allat and upended his conjured flask, tipping half its dark contents into Blanchard's mouth. The horse choked, thrashed and screamed. Then it began to shudder, lashing out wildly with all four legs and its snapping head before rolling and lurching to its feet.

Once again sound in muscle and bone, the warhorse bit several of Allat's tentacles in half, and then reared up like a mountain to threaten the elf. Drehn might have been killed, had Glud not lunged over to yank him out of the way, for he was too weary to dodge the storm of sharp, flailing hooves.

The half-orc set him roughly aside, expecting no more thanks than Drehn offered, as they'd long since stopped keeping score. Allat backed and shifted in the meantime, doing his best to soothe Blanchard. No easy matter, considering that the horse's eyes showed stark, glaring circles of white, and its wild screams tore the smoky red dawn. It was his third shape, that of a placid old stable-goat, which did the trick, reminding Blanchard of stalls, home and fodder. Just like that, the massive destrier lost his fear, shambling up to stand very close to a counterfeit, brown-and-black goat; nostrils wide and ears pricked well forward.

Not far away, Britte was doing her best not to weep. Nothing had ever gone well for the girl, who'd received many more blows and curses than gestures of kindness. Poverty, abandonment, servitude, abuse… and now _this?_ Just when it seemed that she'd claimed a bit of hope and belonging?

It was as much for herself as for Gawain that the girl's eyes filled with angrily rubbed-away tears. She did not understand the scholarly halfling's strange gestures and mutterings, and could not read the marks in his big, floating tome. All she could do was cling to Gawain's armored hand, humming a little half-recalled comfort song. Too small a thing in the face of such terrible injury, and all but useless.

Britte knew no gods, and did not believe they would have listened if she'd called to them, but she knew sorrow and loss and dashed hope. These had been with the girl all her short life, more constant than kin or the heavens.

"Please don't go," she whispered softly, squeezing tight to a hard metal gauntlet, "or else I must follow you, for there's naught here to keep me, Sir."

The halfling paused in mid-spell to look at her, but Britte averted her eyes and her heart. She wanted no sympathy.

"Well?" came a new voice, as a slim, dark shadow fell across Britte, Frodle and Gawain. "How fares our bold warrior?"

It was the elf, moving across charred wood and grey mud to crouch beside Frodle. He held some sort of bottle or flask, which Britte eyed anxiously. The Fair Folk were known to be clever and tricky, especially with potions. But the halfling was too preoccupied to sense Britte's worry. Frodle just shook his curly-haired head, looking utterly baffled.

"He's alive, for something has prevented outright death… but that's all I can tell you, Friend Elf. Nor can I seem to heal or revive him. Have you anything else that might work, and isn't dependent on ambient magicks?"

"Just this." Drehn held forth a bottle of oddly-stained leather, capped with a bright silver top. "Ought to work, though he won't like it any better than the horse did."

Then, glancing aside at Britte, the pale-haired elf made a sarcastic show of obeisance.

"As you're his squire, milady, the decision falls to you. Shall I use a dark healing elixir on the worthy paladin?"

"Yes, at once. Anything. Right away," she urged, reaching out with her other hand as though to snatch away the elf's flask.

Drehn cocked a blond eyebrow, drily examining the anxious young girl. Then, with a brief head shake, he remarked,

"They lose their hearts so easily. Very well, milady... but prepare for the worst, as he's nothing but steel-armored trouble at the best of times, and this brew isn't meant for use on a mortal. It stings quite a bit going down, I've been told."

When Britte scowled at him, Drehn gave her a swift, mocking half-bow.

"But of course, you know all of this, and are ready," he smiled.

"Drehn," the halfling cut in, "stop plaguing the girl, and do as you offered. The day advances and so must we."

The elf shrugged; less chastened than distracted. Uncapping his flask, he got Frodle to help open Gawain's bloodied mouth, and then poured in a quarter, at least, of the simmering brew. For the space of a heartbeat or so, nothing happened.

Then the knight stiffened; racked with the memory of burning and battle; seared inside by something which trickled and spread like hissing reversed poison. And hurt! Lords of Creation, how it hurt! Felt approximately like he'd been force-fed a mouthful of molten lead.

Lunging upright and out of the mud, Gawain might have killed someone, but the scorched, dented armor slowed his movement. Also… someone was speaking to him in swift, urgent tones. A voice he remembered and fought toward. For a moment, he thought…

But no, the face and clutching-tight hands were Britte's, not… someone else's. Gawain stood swaying in her grip, keeping his gaze locked upon the young squire until the world around them stopped spinning and tilting. Until wrath and confusion at last cleared his thoughts. Evidently, the battle was over and won, and all mostly well. Daring a slight sideways glance, he caught an impression of ash and blood and doused fiend, along with the first muted stirrings of dawn.

Folk bustled all about, making piles of the dead and seeing to the injured. Gawain couldn't shift his eyes very well without turning giddy, so he fastened a stern-seeming gaze upon Britte. Thinking him angry, the lass flushed miserably and dropped her head to stare at the churned, sodden ground.

"Healin' elixir?" he asked her, after a bit.

"Yes, sir," she whispered.

"Dark, I suppose?" (And could yet taste, like old blood and rusted iron.)

Britte nodded, saying all in a rush,

"Th- They asked, Sir, and I gave permission to use it. So… so if there's blame, it is mine, alone."

The ground had finally ceased heaving beneath him. That was something. Every breath tasted of ashes and smoke, though, further drying an already seared throat.

"Right. 'Twas well done, then, and over with. You… wouldn't have somewhat t' drink, would you, lass?"

Britte straightened and almost, very nearly smiled at her knight. Extending a hand, she murmured a child's summoning spell, bringing clean snow flying through the air from a nearby pine bough. Just a handful; enough to be molded into a mid-sized snowball or offered up to quench someone's thirst.

The elf or halfling might have provided something stronger, but Sir Gawain was content to accept a handful of sparkling snow from young Britte. And though he scarcely noticed, his squire glowed as if serving the High King, himself. She knew no gods, but thanked them all anyhow, and made ready with the others for transport to safety.


	32. 32: Respite

Right. Will edit tomorrow, as it is impossibly late, today. Thanks for reviewing, Mitzy, Bee, Tikatu and Sam! Replies are forthcoming, as soon as I get up. And hey... Happy Mother's Day!

**32: Respite**

_Brazil, just beneath Thunderbird 2-_

The rescue basket spun and swayed as it rose; winched slowly upward through dense smoke and swirling-bright showers of sparks. Feeling a tug at his helmet and fire suit, Gordon tried very hard to rouse himself, but the effort was too great; like battling upstream against black, rushing water. He could not so much as open his eyes, though the situation was becoming critical.

Captain Dos Santos had located the basket's med-kit. With two injured men to treat under chaotic, filthy conditions, she could not afford to wait for permission or follow strict protocol. Not with little time and less training.

Perhaps she was wrong to feel this way, but her rescuer (the mysterious figure in a helmet and silvery fire survival suit) surely deserved immediate attention. Yet… the other man was near death, bleeding copiously from gunshot wounds that Marina, herself, had inflicted. Was she not responsible for him, as well?

So thinking, she turned from her rescuer to treat the gunman, instead, stanching his injury with quick-clot; ripping open the packet with her teeth and one hand while unzipping his blood-stained coverall with the other. The packet's contents were then poured into the wound, at once sealing and cauterizing his torn flesh and ragged blood vessels. Then she had to flip him over and check the man's back for an exit wound. That took still further time.

_Finally_, Marina was able to return to the International Rescue agent, removing his helmet and opening the closure on his bullet-chewed fire suit. Beneath the sky-filling belly of Thunderbird 2, seemingly combed through by rumbling engine noise and a constant, pulsating hover-field, Captain Dos Santos uncovered both the young man _and_ his identity. For, had not the entire world, only five years earlier, cheered and thrilled to the greatest Olympic swimming performance since Michael Phelps? How could she _not_ recognize the red-haired former athlete?

Above her, a rectangle of golden light marked the open hatch of Thunderbird 2. Gordon Tracy's Thunderbird 2… perhaps constructed by Tracy Aerospace… which had been founded by the reclusive Yanqui astronaut, Jeff Tracy.

Marina's thoughts whirled, but her body reacted mechanically, spraying antiseptic wound cleanser and sprinkling quick-clot as the basket was winched out of fiery chaos and into the hold of a giant, black-ops aircraft. Literally shaking, the injured fighter pilot did not know quite what to do or think; wishing that she was not alone in uncertain territory with two unconscious men… one of whom might be a very dangerous man to have recognized.

_The Brazilian rainforest, between Rio de Janeiro and Altaplano; not quite concurrently-_

The text message got through and, after a few minutes, was acknowledged. More time passed (though probably not as much as it felt like) before International Rescue called back to announce their acceptance. They'd had to trace the call and check out its veracity, Cindy decided… or else they were too busy with that tank farm blaze to respond very quickly. Hard to say.

At any rate, a dry, electronically altered voice bade the reporter and her companions remain hidden, while proceeding alongside the road to a nearby clearing and intersection. There, a Thunderbird landing might just be possible.

"How long's all this going to take?" she demanded of the voice, a bit needled by its slightly bored tone (which for some reason bugged the h3// out of her).

_"How fast can you walk? I guarantee we'll be there before you are, Miss Taylor."_

"Yeah. Not too amazing, with jet engines strapped to your a**, bright boy. Some of us are taking the d-mn scenic route, remember?"

_"Sounds like fun. And me with nothing to do but lounge by the pool, mixing drinks. Anyhow, if you're through complaining and ready to move, about twenty minutes should see you to the rendezvous point. Hop, skip and a jump. You'll hardly break a sweat."_

The reporter glowered; her mood not helped any by Abe's mocking smirk and Virgil Tracy's grin. Pointedly turning away from the chuckling pair, she snapped,

"Right. Thanks. We're headed out, Mr. Personality. In the meantime, you might want to work on that whole thrifty, brave, reverent and clean thing."

_"That's affirm, Taylor… just as soon as I join the Boy Scouts. Suggest you put some pep in your step while I'm filling out my application, though. You and that rich guy are drawing a lot of attention."_

Thinking _'Bite me'_, Cindy rang off. Then, to the amused cameraman and pampered lay-about, she said,

"Those IR dispatchers must moonlight as radio shock-jocks. Whoever that guy is, I hate him. Seriously, what a jackass…! What are _you_ laughing at?!"

Virgil shook his head, falling into step beside the supremely annoyed reporter.

"Nothing, just… I'll bet he's a really nice guy in person. Hugs puppies, pets kitties… gives to charity. The whole works."

"My a**!" she snapped. "I've got a sixth sense about people, Cupcake. Pure reporter's instinct. That guy's a relative to somebody high up in IR, or else he slept his way to the top. Bet me."

Wisely, Virgil did no such thing; merely putting his hands in the pockets of his stolen, too-small trousers and gazing up at a shimmering curtain of branch-framed pink light. Nice night for a walk, and all that.

It was actually closer to fifteen minutes than twenty, when they reached the clearing. They'd hurried along at ankle- and leg-risking speed, because Cindy had something to prove.

At first, she thought they'd beaten IR to the rendezvous site. Convinced that she'd "won", Cindy was already hammering out a triumphant return message. Then, with a tooth-rattling throb and the hiss and snap of tossing branches, something descended to join them. Thunderbird 1, with no running lights or engine glow. Not just present, but almost invisible.

_Midworld, in the snowy courtyard of a witch's prosperous farm-_

The spell nearly failed, having little real power and less guidance. That they did not become lost between worlds was a genuine miracle, considering how many were being transported that day.

Nevertheless, beasts, folk and baggage arrived in one piece at the warded steading of Goodwife Samara; mother to Voreig and Glud. With the brothers came their comrades and eight or nine former slaves.

The witch hurried outside when the party materialized, wiping the stuff of potion and brew from both hands onto her dark, spattered skirts. There were crystals and amulets bound in her tangled gold hair, and a swirl of glittering symbols in the air all around her. With a glad cry, Samara darted across the snowy courtyard to embrace her burnt and slashed sons. Chickens and lizard-birds scattered, but not very far.

"Glud! Voreig!" the witch rasped, in a voice made hoarse by long, fervent spell-chanting. "Home again, safe… wretched, insufferable plague that you are!"

Rough words, delivered half-laughingly, but with tears and relief close behind them. Both of her returned sons were seized and embraced, while the rest of the family drew near, and her roving menagerie roared.

The freedmen were less sanguine, however, drawing together in a fearful clump at the scent and sight of this powerful witch and her half-healed collection of monsters. All but one, that is. A dark-haired woman, bent with a lifetime of labor and worry, came slowly forward. She led Kel and Laney by the hand, and approached Sir Gawain like he deserved burnt offerings and his own marble shrine.

"Milord," she began, bobbing an awkward curtsey, "It was surely you called my little ones back from death… and you as brought us all safe out of danger… so I wanted to thank you, even if the rest of that cowardly lot can't summon the heart nor the stomach to face you."

Her watery eyes drifted over to Britte, who stood just behind Gawain. The girl flushed red, desperately twining both work-roughened hands in the cloth of her fustian skirt. But the older woman neither noticed nor cared, saying,

"If the wench seems useful, lord, take her. You'll find her a decent hand with the beasts, and a tolerable cook. Able to care for children, as well."

Gawain was tired and sore. He'd spent far too much time a-horse and in war harness, lately. More, he'd failed in one realm and returned over-late to the other. Still… the knight had patience enough to smile and say,

"Many thanks f'r the offer. Britte's already taken service as my squire, so her fightin' skills 'll be more called upon than her cookin'… though 'tis devoutly t' be hoped that she fares better with game and a roastin' spit than I ever did."

A light comment, easily made and tossed off, but it meant all the world to young Britte. She straightened at once and lifted her head; unconsciously imitating Gawain's proud stance.

"Fight?" the older woman repeated doubtfully. "With a kettle or broom, p'raps… or her teeth. Put a permanent mark on my husband, she did, when he first brought her home to us."

"Aye, indeed, fight," Gawain asserted, placing a hand upon Britte's right shoulder. _"And_ hunt… and then properly break an' dress th' slaughtered deer. As well ride, dance, care f'r my weapons and armour, recite th' legends of battle, and speak with courtesy to all. These are th' matters an aspiring knight must learn."

The woman's care-worn face plainly showed that she thought him bereft of his senses, but her words were more guarded.

"As your lordship pleases," she said, dropping a second low curtsey. "But you'd be better off with a stout village lad, to my way of thinking. Our Hamnet, now…"

"Thank you," Gawain repeated, his hand tightening slightly upon Britte's tough, raw-boned shoulder. "But 'tis well pleased I am, with my present squire."

Defeated, the woman ceased arguing and allowed her children to approach Sir Gawain. Kel hung back a bit, gnawing his lower lip, but Laney ran up to hug the knight (or those dented and flame-darkened portions she could reach.

"Will we see you again, ever?" she asked him, eyes tightly shut to squeeze back a hot flood of tears. "Or Britte? Will you have grand adventures a hundred miles away, quite forgetting us?"

Gawain smiled at the lass. Smoothing her tousled brown hair with a rattling, gauntleted hand, he said,

"We shall come as often as possible, Laney, my oath on it. You'll not be forgotten."

Britte was less eloquent. She darted forward to scoop the child up and hold her close for a fierce, wordless moment. Then Kel, also, as he'd begun to silently cry. Torn, Britte hugged him. But she could not return to what had been, any more than Gawain could. Nor did she wish to.

It was Goodwife Samara who interrupted the moment, flanked by her slightly-scorched offspring, Allat perched on her shoulder in molting bird-form.

"Sir Knight," she said, performing a curtsey as deep and graceful as any he'd have witnessed at court. "I understand that I've you to thank, in part, for Voreig's return?"

Britte had to force herself not to make the sign against evil before Samara, who seemed a wild and darkling person; one who'd turned her back upon other humans to consort with monsters. But Gawain had no such qualms. Not any more.

"In part," he agreed, smiling tiredly. "Though Frodle an' Drehn managed th' lion's share. I was but lately come t' th' hunt."

Her expression warmed as Samara took in the red-haired knight's battered, mismatched harness and swaying exhaustion. Clearly, the lad was all but done.

"Come inside, all of you," she said to her visitors. "Rest, eat and be healed."


	33. 33: The Consequence

My brother, niece and nephew are here. Will edit, as soon as we return from the water park! Edited.

**33: The Consequence**

_Brazil, ascending on autopilot-_

With Thunderbird 2 now rising above the fiery chaos of a smoldering tank farm, Brains left the cockpit and hurried aft. Outwardly calm, the engineer's heart was thudding what felt like a thousand beats per minute as he rushed through the passenger cabin and "locker room" to the vessel's main hold.

Bulkheads and deck vibrated subtly, returning the engines' deep-throated song. Dim red lighting (easier on the eyes in a night rescue) dyed everything around him to the color of blood and ashes. His footsteps seemed to ring and crack like gunshots through a metal corridor which felt about twenty miles longer than it should have.

Worried, Brains redoubled his speed, arriving at the main hold out of breath and shaking. Entrance was no simple matter, because the access hatch was print-locked. Several long seconds passed before the mechanism would read and accept his flushed, sweaty palm scan. It clicked open at last on the third attempt. Brains threw his slight weight against the hatch to hasten its motion, rehearsing first aid techniques in his head the whole while.

Inside, the hold was bright with reflected flame glow and booming with noise. Hot updrafts bore the stench of burnt fuel and showers of ash into Thunderbird 2, only ceasing when the lower hatch whirred shut and locked fast.

Brains ran forward. The rescue basket was still being hauled into position, spinning and rattling as it rose. Summoning a pair of medical grav carts, Hackenbacker sprinted along the hold's boarding gantry, past the docked Firefly to Gordon's basket, now being ratcheted home and locked into place.

Inside, the rescued fighter pilot was crouched with a med-kit between a wounded depot worker and Gordon. Both men appeared to be unconscious, and had received some basic first aid. Gordon's helmet was unstrapped, Brains noted hurriedly, but still in place.

As the grav carts whooshed from their recharge bays, Hackenbacker reached over the basket's side, calling,

"M- Ma'am? Captain Dos Santos? Can you w- walk? If y- you'll, ah… you'll s- step this way I'll get you and, ah… and th- the other passenger to an infirmary."

The Brazilian pilot hooked her fingers through the basket's mesh and struggled to her feet, making a confused _"I don't understand"_ sort of face. (This was deliberate and calculated, just like the way she'd replaced Gordon Tracy's helmet… but Brains didn't know it at the time.)

She accepted his assistance up and over the basket's side, for her leg was filled with hot, stabbing pain and too weak to put much weight on. But the Yanqui could not stay with her for long. So Captain Dos Santos braced herself against a tall metal strut, inching further away when the first grav cart came nudging past, beeping and flashing like a miniature ambulance.

There were robotic arms in the hold (for the stowing of cargo, vehicle maintenance and such). Mounted on overhead tracks, they were normally controlled from the bulkhead or a hand-held remote. This time, however, the pneumatically swishing arms went to work on their own, helping Brains to lift the worker and Gordon out of that blood-spattered basket and onto the bobbing carts. The engineer didn't wonder about this until debrief, because he had two badly-hurt men on his hands, a vessel still in the danger zone on autopilot, and no time to think about anything else.

Quick-clot had been used on both victims; stanching the wounds, but leaving scorched, ragged circles on their flesh from the terrible heat build-up. Nasty stuff, but effective. All of this, Brains took in with a series of swift, busy glances as he strapped the men into place and then offered a bracing arm to Captain Dos Santos.

Good thing, he decided, that the pilot had left Gordon's helmet in place while treating his gunshot wounds. She might have learnt his identity, otherwise. But that was neither here nor there, at the moment. Setting forth with what speed they could muster, Hackenbacker and his charges headed out of the clamorous hold.

Performing a deft bit of triage, Brains left Marina Dos Santos in the passenger cabin with bottled water and a first aid kit. Then, picking up his pace, he delivered Gordon and the other man to Thunderbird 2's tiny med center. The grav carts could function as ersatz transport beds, as well, once their scanning, treatment and power feeds were locked in.

"Island Base, f- from Thunderbird 2," he panted into a wall comm, once the carts were correctly hooked up and data was flowing. "Do you c- copy, Island Base?"

_"Loud and clear," _John's voice responded, while keys clicked and voices surged in the background. _"How are your patients?"_

"Alive," Brains informed his friend, "B- But in definite need of professional treatment."

_"Understood. Word is, get the passengers to a hospital in Rio de Janeiro, then head home with Number 4. You fly the plane. I'll monitor their status and coordinate minor treatment from here."_

"W- Will do," Brains promised, adding, "The, ah… The s- situation is under control below, I t- take it?"

_"Getting there,"_ John told him_. "Another fire boat is on its way and the local crews are calling the Forestry Service for air support. They figure to have the blaze doused in another few hours."_

Brains nodded, not really seeing the wall comm and bulkhead he faced. For him… with Gordon down and two injured victims to transport… the battle was over.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_At a dim jungle crossroads, somewhere between Altaplano and Rio de Janeiro-_

Thunderbird 1 was not quite able to land, but she dropped to a close enough hover for Scott (in masking helmet and uniform) to help Cindy, Abe and Virgil aboard. Waves of force rippled away from the silvery craft, shaking the treetops and sending loud troops of monkeys bounding and screaming through the foliage.

Scott was… not quite apprehensive; something else, something nerve-stretched-breathless as he reached downward and out through the hatch to help the reporter within. There was a sturdy chain ladder for her and the others to climb on, but he helped, anyhow; hauling Taylor inside and pretending a need to steady her. Nearly a hug, it was.

Cindy let him hold her for those tremble-y few seconds, feeling oddly confused by his presence. Warm air and the scent of mud and tropical blooms had rushed in with the grubby reporter, nearly overwhelming the sterile, canned atmosphere of Thunderbird 1.

…Much as his sudden emotions overwhelmed Scott. Almost, he forgot to haul in the videographer (who commented acidly about rescued women and gift-wrapped mystery men).

Then, of course, Virgil came up; climbing awkwardly with his injured hand. Scott had to resist the powerful urge to embrace his brother, who was thin and dirty, but still breathing.

"Welcome aboard," Scott managed gruffly, after clearing his throat a few times. "There's a bathroom a few paces forward where you three can clean up and take care of business… and bottled water in the fridge, over there. Food, too, if anyone's hungry. First aid kit's right by the hatch, and a comm unit beside that. I can provide blankets, and there are a couple of bulkhead drop-down seats that release with a button-press, but they're not very comfortable."

Rather than keep babbling, Scott demonstrated by touching a switch. At once, a pair of hard metal jump seats detached from the bulkhead, trailing green nylon safety webbing and read-before-flight tags. Virgil let Abe and Cindy take them, sinking down on a mission-monitor crate, himself.

"Nice work," he told his helmeted, voice-muffled brother. Then, playing his part with gusto, "My father will gladly pay for your time and expenses, Lieutenant… or whatever you are."

Scott made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a _'yeah, __right,__'_ snort. But,

"Sounds good to me," he replied, with a definite grin in his voice. "Just bill the works to Jeff Tracy, I guess?"

"Absolutely. And throw in a generous gratuity for yourself, while you're at it. Below a million, he won't even notice."

Cindy's mouth was a diamond-hard line by this point, and she looked like she wanted to strangle the smug, rescued playboy.

"What Little Lord Gottbux is trying to say," she interrupted quite fiercely, "is _thank you._ We appreciate the assist."

For some reason, Cindy's grimy, scratched hand reached out; and for some reason else, Scott took it.

"You're welcome," he said. "This time, and every other."

Then, giving her hand a brief squeeze, he let go and turned to head forward. Didn't make any sense, Scott told himself, as he ducked through the hatch and sealed it behind him. No sense at all, to be crazy in heart-crushing love with someone he'd only just met. And yet… he felt like he already knew her; like he'd _known_ that someday soon she'd be coming along.

Right. He'd got himself under better control by the time Scott rejoined Alan in the cockpit, but his conversation was mostly composed of monosyllables and grunts, because all he wanted to do was rush back to the hold, again. At least flying gave him something else to concentrate on…

Moments later, Thunderbird 1 rose with hunting-owl silence; a slim, silver dart below neon-pink rippling lights. She cleared the area just before the drivers of a slow-moving car returned from exploring the roadblock and news van. Seeing nothing, the car drove onward, still searching for vanished prey.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Singapore, later that day-_

The cold, stiff body of a wealthy and powerful businessman was discovered on a couch in his luxury penthouse. A terrified maid called the authorities when she was unable to rouse the man, who had few associates and no known friends.

He did have kin, however, in the form of Kyrano and TinTin, servants in the house of a certain Jeff Tracy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Midworld, in the hillside house of Samara-_

Gawain awoke all at once; alert and hale, but rather confused. Sitting up, he found himself in a proper bed for the first time in long memory, covered in bright-woven blankets and fine linen sheets. The room was sunny, cheerful and clean, with a single, deep-set window of bubble-flecked glass.

A wardrobe stood in one corner, its doors open to reveal his cleaned tunic, leggings and gambeson, though the hauberk and mail hose were nowhere in sight. His spear, shield and sword were present, however, propped in another corner of the cloth-hung stone wall, close by his boots and brass spurs.

Rush matting covered the floor, and a single candle, unlit, stood on a chest by his bed. In all, a quite comfortable chamber, as well-appointed as any in the house of his father, King Lot. (Fewer troll hides and trophy-shields, though.)

Close at hand was a washstand of sorts, its spell-heated water bubbling out of a brass griffin and into a basin of polished shell. The knight rose, stretched and washed himself, murmuring the usual morning words to a deity who had most likely ceased to care.

He'd have shaved, as well, had there been anything… the merest red peach fuzz… to scrape free. But his chin and lip were quite smooth still. It was in troubled spirits that Gawain drifted to the room's only window for a look on the snowfall and sunshine without.

Drawn by odd noises, he peered through the waver-y glass at a young rider and… (Centaur?) …who seemed to be tilting with a long, peeled branch at some sort of rotating, midair target. Snow crunched and flew beneath flying hooves as the pair clattered across the stone courtyard. They missed the target, however, and came to a skidding halt near a turf-walled storehouse. Leaning forward, hands on the chilly stone sill, Gawain shook his head.

"Never strike a thing, with y'r lance held at that angle," he muttered. Cold seeped in through the window glass, while the pair outside breathed great, cheerful plumes of glittering white. Dusting off, they set themselves up for another missed run at the target, this time fetching up by the courtyard wall.

Gawain sighed, then turned from the window and got himself dressed; hurriedly donning his shirt, tunic, belt, leggings and boots, finishing up with a bronze-pinned red cloak. He added his sword and spurs as almost an afterthought, because the house of the witch seemed very far from conflict and battle.

Then, unarmoured, Gawain left the room. He might have had some difficulty finding his way through the twisting, hillside warren, had a small glowing spark not appeared in the air to guide him. But Samara was a thoughtful hostess, as he'd earlier learnt.

He followed the mote past dozens of locked wooden doors, some of which leaked strange scents, or weird beams of shimmering light. No matter; they weren't dangerous, and not his business, in any case.

Instead, the guide-light brought Sir Gawain to the witch's kitchen, where she was busily hacking at roots while spell-stirring a giant bronze kettle. She chanted and gestured without ceasing, giving her guest the barest, most distracted of nods.

Gawain was hungry, but the odd lumps and webs which formed in that potion whenever she stirred it, together with the musty smell of its slow-popping bubbles, stopped him from asking for food. He didn't have to, as is happened.

Samara glanced up at her guest from beneath a mass of tangled blonde hair, and then conjured a carved wooden bowl from her larder. Empty, it floated to the table beside her kettle and was soon joined by a large cup formed of baked yellow clay. Nothing in that, either, at first.

Bemused, Sir Gawain sat down at a beckoning table-side stool. A folded linen napkin and dark bread appeared, just as a slice of meat detached itself from a ceiling-hung ham and drifted down to settle before him. Then the cup and bowl filled; the one with strained ale, the other with warm cherry pottage, a thing he'd not eaten since his years as a page to the Lady Kait.

All at once, nothing mattered but food and drink. He bent to his meal like a starving man, emptying the bowl four times, devouring all of that loaf and half of another and many slices of ham. Samara completed her potion and stood watching him, eyebrows raised to her hairline.

"My own sons could scarce have done better, Sir Knight," she said, when at last he pushed back from the table. "But it's hardly surprising, considering that you've slept the day and night 'round."

Gawain smiled and thanked her, though he couldn't recall very much after entering the witch's house.

"The others?" he asked, changing the subject. "My squire appears t' be trainin' outside, but the halfling, elf an' shape-changer… Are they well?"

She nodded, setting all the crystals and talismans which decked her long hair to tinkling. Much like Glud, Samara was fond of magickal ornaments.

"The scholar has found a roomful of ancient scrolls to burrow through," she replied, clearing up with a wave of her hand. "Meanwhile, your shape-shifting servant is talking with my manticore, and the elf is away in the hills, resting after the fashion of his people. The human folk you brought along have become quite restive, however. I believe that they wish you to guide them home, Sir Knight."

Then, placing both hands on her hips,

"And what of yourself? I sense that your body has knit sound enough, while that within you remains sore wounded."

Startled, Gawain looked down at himself.

"I've taken internal hurt?" the knight asked, somewhat anxiously. Folk died of such things, he knew.

But Samara gave him an impatient head shake.

"Not in physick, Sir Knight," she explained. "In spirit. I take it that Faerie was not at all what you'd hoped?"

Gawain stood up all at once, but held by the witch's gaze, did not leave. Instead, after his heartbeat calmed down, he said,

"Perhaps it was _me_… not the place, as failed t' meet expectations."

Samara covered the giant bronze kettle with a wood-handled lid.

"How so?" she enquired, removing her badly-stained apron.

"I did not succeed well at anythin' there, besides battle… and in th' end, even that went wrong."

Samara bustled about the kitchen doing make-work, so that he'd not feel pinned nor spooked.

"And the girl? Lady Anelle?"

"…Is a queen by now, wed t' th' selfsame usurper who cast her forth in th' first place… or his demon-haunted shell, whatever."

The witch stoked up her fire, adding charcoal and bits of snapped twig.

"Poor girl," Samara murmured. "She must be missing you terribly."

Gawain reacted as though the witch had flung slops at his face.

"Missing me?" he snapped, "Not likely! I failed in m' sworn duty… and she was entirely right t' be rid of me."

Samara ceased pretending to work in order to look at the flushed and miserable knight.

"What happened?" she asked him.

Gawain folded both arms across his broad chest. Gazing at the reed-covered floor, he shrugged.

"After bein' worsted in th' last fight, I awoke in prison. Stayed there a bit, though 'tis hard t' be certain how long. Time flows oddly in Faerie. Finally, I was brought forth f'r a grand feast of some sort… her weddin' banquet, no doubt… And there, in public, she had a list of charges read, then ordered me scourged an' exiled."

There was no laughter at a Faerie court. No jeering or taunting. Just silent frost and impassive rejection, while the lash bit again and again. "The Mortal Favourite" they'd called him. Well, no longer.

"You fought?" the witch asked him.

"As hard and long as I could," he replied, very quietly.

"You were wounded?"

"Unto death."

Samara's full mouth pursed. Musingly, she said,

"And yet you lived and were released, with what amounts to a token punishment for someone who can heal himself as well as you seem able to. Have you not wondered why? What the poor girl had to trade in return for your freedom and life?"

Leaning forward slightly, the witch added,

"You battled a supernatural being to the point of death. _She_ lies every night beside the monster who just about slew you. And that is true love, on both sides."

Then,

"Did the two of you ever…?"

Gawain blushed. Stirring the reeds around with the toe of his boot, he admitted,

"Once… but 'twas my fault, entirely. I should have been stronger."

"Good," said the witch. "Then at least the poor child has something of warmth and joy to remember."

The knight stood thunderstruck, unable to speak or react. Samara might have said something further, but the red-haired young warrior didn't hear it, being too filled with warring emotions.

"What must I do?" he asked her at last, hardly above a whisper.

The witch took a handful of glittering dust from the pouch at her belt and flung it into the air between them. Sketching a sigil in the bright, spreading cloud, she watched the specks for a time, then said,

"Build the house, bridge and altar, I'm told… and therein speak with your former deity. The way forward lies through your past."

It was a pale and wondering Gawain who ventured out to the snowy courtyard.

"Sir!" Britte shouted, dropping her branch and leaping off the young centaur. "Sir, you're awake!"

But her mount reacted with still greater joy. The gangly centaur made wild, happy noises and rushed forward at a full gallop, arms flung wide and shaggy mane streaming.


	34. 34: Willpower

Sorry so late... lots going on. Thanks, Sam, Tikatu, Bee and Mitzy for your kind reviews. Edits and further explanation forthcoming. Edited, at last...

**34: Willpower **

_Tracy Island, late afternoon-_

With four of her sons scattered and Jeff on his way to Rio de Janeiro, Lucy took over the desk. After all, John was there to provide assistance and back-up, and she'd seen the thing done many times, already. More importantly, the astronaut was freed to consult Tracy Island's online medical database and arrange further treatment for Gordon.

…A highly complicated matter, as it turned out, for multiple gunshot wounds were tough to explain. Fortunately, there were several operatives with medical expertise who could be got on site in a hurry… _Or_, there was Dr. Bennett, who'd just finished a week of survival training, out in New Zealand. Question was, could he trust her with the family secret?

Unaware of her son's private quandary, Lucy manned the desk for twelve straight hours, surviving on coffee and wintergreen throat lozenges. Nearby, John maintained the sort of lowered head, stoic focus he'd shown during exam weeks and astronaut training. Every once in awhile, between soothing the Brazilian government, reassuring Electro-Paulo and dodging calls from the press, Lucy caught his eye and mouthed,

_"How is he?"_

…Meaning Virgil or Gordon, depending on the situation. John's most common response was a WSA-style thumbs-up, or a flattened, wavering palm, delivered while talking calmly over the comm to Brains.

TinTin wandered in from time to time with small, fussy Richard clasped in her arms. Seeing them, Lucy would push away from the desk, give her sticky-faced, frantically reaching son a quick kiss and snuggle, then get back to work. Difficult, but Jeff always managed, and so could she.

Thunderbird 1 was first back. She arrived near sunset without Virgil, who'd been dropped off in Rio along with a WNN news team. _He'd_ have to take the long way home; acting like a clueless victim and cooperating with the kidnap investigators before he was finally permitted to leave.

The situation was a mess, for the Hood had gained vast influence through possession and bribery, and no-one was quite sure who they could trust. But Jeff didn't hesitate. With the assurance of great wealth, he planned to ride in on a trade-wind of cash, blast his way past the tangled red tape, and whisk Virgil home.

Meanwhile, exuberant Alan and quiet Scott were welcomed to the hangar by TinTin, whose smile was genuine (if rather concerned).

"Rest," she urged, giving them both a quick, shy peck on the cheek.

"Are you kidding, T?" Alan scoffed; all tall, awkward angles and golden-boy looks. "I could stay up _another _twelve hours, no lie. I feel like a million _(*yawn*)_ bucks! Take on… (*_bigger yawn*)_ … the Hood and all his buddies, too."

"Yeah. Very convincing, Junior," Scott cut in, rubbing at the knotted muscles of his neck and right shoulder. "Now, stop your posing, go upstairs, hit the showers and then lie down before you drop in your tracks. That's an order, mister."

Alan might have argued, but the hangar had begun spinning slow circles around him; its colors and sounds blent by sheer, epic weariness. Okay… so maybe he _was_ a little bit tired. Didn't mean he had to admit it.

"Sure thing, Grandpa," he said to Scott, stepping out of his brother's reach. "Nap time, it is. Just to… _(*yawn*)_… keep you from looking all elderly and junk by yourself."

Right. Scott Tracy was too mature and distracted to respond in kind. It had been many years since the worst he'd had to worry about was a stupid game of one-upmanship, can't-miss pick-up lines or his GPA. Then again, maybe he'd always had more on his mind than free and easy Alan did. Hard to say.

"I'll wake you up when Gordon gets in," Scott promised, guiding Alan to the elevator and steering him within. "Get all the rest you can in the meantime, because God only knows what's happening, next."

"Know what, old man?" Alan teased, just before the elevator doors whooshed shut, "You worry too much!"

See... _clearly_, Gordon would be fine, because there was no conceivable way that things could be otherwise. Gordon was his brother and best friend. Therefore, Gordon would recover in no time flat, and they'd have a good laugh about it, later. Open and shut case, y'know?

Alan was in bed and snoring like a rusty chainsaw when Singapore's top law enforcement agency called. They were attempting to track down Kyrano, Belaghant's nearest kinsman. Worrisome enough in itself, but matters devolved rather swiftly from there.

The slim, impeccably dressed Malaysian took the call in Jeff's airy, brandy-and-book scented library. Pale and calm, Kyrano identified himself and then answered a spate of blunt, rapid questions. Only when he'd run the verbal gauntlet and faxed a copy of his driver's license did he get the grim news: Belaghant, his brother, was dead.

Kyrano sat down very suddenly. For some reason, he was all at once flooded with extraneous detail; the hard, slim weight of his cell phone. Afternoon sunshine spearing through restless foliage to cast long, pointed shadows. A spider, darting about amid desktop accessories, searching for prey.

He did not kill the spider. Nor, when offered his dead brother's fortune, did Kyrano accept.

"Let the dead seek whatever repose awaits them," he'd later say to a team of grim lawyers. "And let my brother's property and funds be divided among those who worked for him. I will have none of it, and nor shall my daughter."

A powerful decision, and a turning point, though one which lay some little way in the future; after the first doomed effort to strengthen Earth's faltering magnetic field. Before that, Thunderbird 2 limped home; battered and scorched like she'd flown through a firefight.

It took Hackenbacker in the cockpit and John at the flight command station to land her; working with the care and caution of weary pilots who realize just how quickly exhaustion can lead to a fatal mistake. Even so, Brains had to wave off and circle the island once, having failed to quite line up with the runway.

This flight, too, TinTin met. Standing with Scott, she waited while the giant green cargolifter steamed and grumbled into the hangar. Waited while feed-lines and hoses were attached, and the gantry extended; ringing and clanking as it bridged the wide gap between concrete bunker and rumbling aircraft.

Then the Bird's main hatch slid open and TinTin dashed forward to ask the same question Mrs. Tracy had: _How is he?_

_Midworld, in the snowy stone courtyard of Dame Samara-_

Gawain braced to meet the centaur's galloping rush; crouching slightly, rather than drawing his sword. They'd often played this way in Faerie, but Anelle's adopted colt had grown somewhat since then, and perhaps didn't realize what all of that added horseflesh meant in terms of sheer power.

As the creature drew closer (blending isolated words and high whinnies in that peculiar way of his) Gawain dodged left and then pivoted, giving the centaur's shaggy bay rump a resounding slap in the process. Had to leap well clear after that, for Chester possessed a mighty, rib-snapping kick.

In the meantime, Britte charged forward, shouting what she fancied to be a warrior's battle cry. Gawain ducked a spirited leap, then seized the lass and tossed her at Chester. The centaur scrambled backward with awkward haste; hooves slipping on wet stone as he plucked her tumbling form out of the air. Overbalanced, Chester thumped back on his stinging haunches with Britte clutched to his chest and a startled look on his face.

"Subtlety," the knight told them, helping the youngsters dust off and sort themselves, "Has never been listed among my greatest strengths, but th' pair of you make me to seem like a ruddy dark-elf assassin. Rushin' straight in is almost _never_ y'r best approach in a serious fight. B'lieve it or not, even _I_ stop t' think, now and then."

Young Britte was too happy and relieved to take his reprimand to heart. In fact, she only just prevented herself from embracing the grumbling, red-haired knight.

"Sir," she boasted, pointing with pride to a large oaken barrel, "I've been kicking your mail shirt and hose about the courtyard, closed in a barrel with sand and strong vinegar. 'Tis said to clean the links marvelous well."

Gawain nodded at the lass and began to move off; smiling very briefly.

"I thank you," he started to say, before Chester seized his shoulders (being tall enough, now, to look the knight right in his eyes).

"Mum… where?" Chester demanded, having to twist and shorten his rough-maned neck to get those odd human words out.

"Away, f'r th' moment," Gawain told him, reaching up and across to pat one of the colt's corded hands. Anything more complicated would just have confused him. "But I'll be seein' t' that, directly I've fulfilled a task."

_"Build the house, bridge and altar,"_ Samara had advised him. Well, there was only one thing she could mean; a form of direct speech with the Order's deity that had not been attempted in living memory. Nor was the method written down anywhere, its specifics being handed down through the Order by oral tradition, alone.

_…Taking no food nor supplies, no armor nor edged weaponry, refusing no willing companion, ride to the highest place within day's reach, and build there the house, bridge and altar. He who is worthy, let him come. But he who is lacking shall certainly die._

A serious matter, potentially fatal for such a weak vessel as Gawain considered himself. Yet… if it meant bringing aid to the Lady Anelle…

"We… help… task," offered Chester, fighting the wavering squeal which his words always seemed to fetch up in.

"Yes, indeed!" Britte seconded, placing an eager hand on Gawain's left arm. "Sir, if a mighty task lies ahead, you'll surely have need of a squire."

Her nose and cheeks had been whipped by the wind to a bright, stinging red, and her brown eyes sparkled with readiness. Beside her, Chester pranced his fore-hooves; rearing up just a bit and switching his tail.

The knight's reaction was far less happy. He stiffened; all at once colder than wind and hard frost could account for. He'd have warned them away if he could have, Britte and Chester, both. But the laws of his former Order were clear.

_…Refusing no willing companion…_

No matter how young or unprepared; how likely to be smashed like a moth by the offended deity. Clearing his throat, Gawain risked a single, bleak stab at dissuasion.

"Have you nothin' more important t' do? No trainin' or… Or aught of that sort?"

But Britte wasn't having any. Legs planted firmly apart, hands at her hips, the brown-haired lass simply shook her head, no.

"I promised to serve, Sir… and serve I shall, unless you command me to stay."

Very quietly, he said,

"Nay. Come, if you will… but mind, both of you, t' do precisely as told, and beware that you not interfere, no matter what may seem t' be happenin'. Am I understood?"

_Now_ Britte caught his concern. Her brown eyes widened and her head cocked slightly to one side.

"Yes, Sir," she whispered after a moment, steeling herself. "We'll do just as you say, no matter what happens."


	35. 35: Aftershocks

Thanks for all of your insightful and helpful reviews, Tikatu, Bee and Sam. Not only are they most welcome, but they help me to produce a better story. I promise to review-reply soon. Got finals week coming up, and responsible for writing a script for an upcoming seminar... Heh! Good times!

**35: Aftershocks**

The world had changed and was changing, still. With a chaotically weakening magnetic field, navigation was compromised and storms more frequent. People were frightened, and that led to trouble, especially with agents of the Hood still roaming the world, deeply imprinted with their dead master's plans. In most cases, these individuals (only lightly held, before) did not even realize that they were a sort of human bomb, primed to wreak havoc when circumstances placed them in the proper position.

One such disaster happened in the Netherlands, at a meeting of the world's most powerful multinational corporations, when a trusted government functionary opened a series of dikes, letting in the grey, raging sea. Jeff Tracy was not present at the time, having allowed his son and heir, Scott, to take his place at council alongside Stavros Valianatos of Omega Petrochemical and James Springfield of Omni Entertainment. But again, all of this lay in the future.

_Tracy Island, after the landing of Thunderbird 2-_

Gordon awoke in transit; feeling the subtle dip and sway of his fast-moving grav cart, hearing the clamor of hangar machinery. Someone trotted alongside, murmuring things he could not quite grasp, but which comforted, anyhow. TinTin, he blurrily surmised, watching for those odd, scattered moments when her bent head and swinging dark hair eclipsed a rectangular ceiling light.

They'd tried once, you know… after dodging pursuit in a raucous family manhunt game and finding themselves alone together at the poolside equipment shed. Hadn't come to much, because it hurt and confused her and she cried, so he'd stopped. But that only made TinTin cry harder, at least until he'd wrapped her tight in his arms and said that what really mattered was _her…_ not some five-minute hormone explosion. No one else knew what had happened that day, but funnily enough, the experience bonded them closer than outright sex would have done… and he loved her very much, still.

Would have told her so, too, but words were difficult to form through his fog of pain meds and blood-loss. Gordon had to content himself with just holding tight to her hand. He drifted in and out of consciousness through cold, sharp-smelling alcohol swabs and sudden fierce needle-jabs, hissing gasses and beeping machinery. At least once, he was transferred; lifted and heaved to a fresh, cool-sheeted bed.

Voices spoke; Brains, TinTin, John, Alan, Scott and mum… _mom_. They sounded muffled, as though filtered through cloth or great distance. These spoke the usual sentiments, reassuring Gordon that all would be well and that Virgil was safe with their father. But after awhile he heard someone else; a no-nonsense woman whose voice was familiar, if only he could have thought well enough to remember from _where._

_Outside the mansion's clinic, in a carpeted hall by the second set of frosted glass doors-_

"You're kidding me," said Linda, scowling a little. She looked sunburnt and salt-dried and (to John) utterly wonderful. "All of _this…_ with Tahiti within easy helijet distance? You've practically got your own hospital here, and for what? Cash poisoning?"

"Well," hedged the astronaut, preparing to open a door for his guest, "sort of. To put it bluntly, things happen to single, bone-headed rich kids that my father would rather keep private."

"Like what?" the doctor demanded suspiciously. As usual, her brown, unruly hair was caught back in a ponytail, and (also as usual) she wasn't much dressed to impress. No problem. Had she worn sack-cloth and cobwebs, he'd have wanted her, anyway.

"Okay… but keep this under wraps, please, Doctor… When my brother Virgil was kidnapped, Gordon took all the delays in finding him pretty, um… hard. To the point of trying to rescue Virgil, himself."

John was no good at all with lies, and never had been, because he had no tricks of expression or body language with which to disguise an untruth. Being dishonest, then, was mostly a matter of threading the needle from one carefully chosen fact to another, while skimming right past whatever was too close or revelatory for comfort.

"Long story short, he armed himself and got in touch with some… locals, I guess, arranged transportation to Brazil…"

"Then ran into trouble playing Rambo, and got himself injured?" Linda hazarded, beginning to grasp the situation (sort of).

John nodded.

"He stopped a few bullets; yeah. Which is not the kind of thing that dad likes to have hitting WNN. Not with the Amsterdam trade conference coming up. So… if you could look Gordon over, maybe patch him up and program a course of treatment…"

Doctor Bennett snorted.

"In other words, Sunshine, you want me to perform the usual flight surgeon's on-the-sly quick fix, for a civilian?"

John smiled, very nearly right at her. His blue-violet eyes brushed past her brown ones, settling at the side of her face.

"Yeah," he replied. "That's about it."

Impulsively, John reached out with his other, non-door-holding hand to touch the doctor's slim shoulder.

"Anything you can do would be greatly appreciated. And, um… afterward, if you've had enough of survival training and back-door medicine… I could take you to dinner, or something."

Linda moved her shoulder, covering a distinct tingle and sudden blush with brusque rudeness.

"Uh-uh. Down, boy," she told him. "Just because I'm cautiously willing to slap a few band-aids on your dumbass relations doesn't mean I'm ready to date _you._ As far as I can tell, the gene pool here's pretty murky and turbulent. God knows what I'd catch going in."

"A baby," he responded, speaking another time's outcome. "A little girl, almost as pretty as you are… but not quite. She's a mess; noisy, undisciplined, incontinent, and about as squared away as a soup sandwich… but I miss her."

The doctor inhaled sharply and then stepped a little further away, bumping her back and left shoulder against the clinic's glass door.

"John," she said to the tall, blond astronaut, "you've got to stop saying things like that. I'm responsible for your flight-physical ratings, remember?"

John nodded again. Then, leaning down to kiss her peeling red forehead, he said,

"I remember."

…But he meant much more than she thought.

_Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in the Blue Room of the Presidential Palace-_

Jeff Tracy was weary from travel, but quite firm in his resolve. He wanted to see his son, right the h3ll _now._ Minister Cardona, who'd been told to make the man welcome, was taken aback. Did these Norte Americanos know nothing of pacing or politics?

"Senhor," he said, trying again to be civil, "there is to be a reception in your honor at the grand ballroom. The young man will be brought to you there, once el Presidente has had an opportunity to…"

"My son," Jeff told him, without so much as a smile or a blink, "_now. _Afterward, whatever else you want in the way of photo ops and handshakes. H3ll, I'll open a factory here and name it after your wife. But first, Mister Cardona, I need to see Virgil. Are we clear?"

The slender, mustached defense minister straightened to attention in response and then gracefully bowed.

"Indeed, Mr. Tracy," he said. "After which time we may perhaps discuss a sharing of highly advanced technology. _International Rescue_ technology."

To his credit, Jeff somehow managed to maintain his composure.


	36. 36: Summons

...Just a bit more, which should really have been tacked onto chapter 35. I had to make dinner, though.

**36: Summons**

_Midworld, in Samara's rock-hewn, lamp-lit stables-_

Somewhat hurriedly, Gawain took his leave of the witch, her menagerie and wild younger offspring. The doing was secret for the knight did not wish to risk anyone else's involvement in what might be his swift, brutal finish. Bad enough that his squire must come, with the centaur. The rest, he intended to spare.

With Britte's assistance Gawain saddled Blanchard; a simpler business when the beast had nothing to bear but an unarmoured, lightly armed man (mace and hunting bow, no more). For her own part, Britte took up a staff and her usual pouch of smooth rocks. Chester received a stout club, which he joyfully proceeded to bash against every available surface, earning an ill-tempered nip from Blanchard. Gawain would have added his own reprimand, but Chester was dear to Anelle, and he couldn't bring himself to be very stern.

"Stop," he commanded, taking hold of the club's wooden haft. Then, nodding at the snorting white destrier, "Take care. He'll have half y'r tail off, next time."

Chester's head drooped and his ears twitched sideways. They did not swivel so well as a horse's, but did move in response to his moods, somewhat. By way of apology, the colt released his grip on the steel-headed weapon to wrap both arms around Gawain. At once nuzzling and ogre-hugging the trapped knight, he said,

"Not angry… no more with me, Da."

Just about broke his ribs in so doing, which made Chester's speech doubly hard to follow.

"Will not… play stick no more."

"Right," Gawain grunted, finally pulling away, "Not till th' proper moment, at any rate… an' not upon innocent walls."

"Shall we be fighting a terrible enemy, Sir?" Britte put in, retuning from the tack room with a Chester-sized blanket and saddle pad. She had straw in her hair and hopeful gleam in her eager brown eyes.

"Not if all goes well… which has not been th' case f'r longer than I care t' recall. Still, you'll likely have little t' do but look on, an' that from a very safe distance."

Slapping Blanchard's side as he tightened the girth strap (because the stallion had learnt a mischievous trick of inhaling deeply while the saddle was fastened, then letting his breath out all in a rush when Gawain put a foot in the stirrup) the knight added,

"Can't really give you much more direction, as I've no clear notion what to expect, m'self. Only watch and remember, Britte, and if matters end poorly, seek you another knight my order… my father if possible… and tell what became of his son."

The day was well advanced by the time they rode through Samara's spell-warded doors; exchanging comfort and warmth for knife-edged, unnatural cold. The afternoon sky looked like snow and smelt of it, too; its pale blue surface hidden by fast-scudding, dirty grey clouds. Blizzard conditions, if he read the wind sprites correctly.

They could not allow weather to hinder them, though. Avoiding the notice of Britte's fellow ex-slaves, Gawain rode forth with his squire and centaur. Their trip was at first uneventful, though her mount's coltish gamboling caused Britte a very sore rump and much embarrassment.

At Gawain's behest, they followed the watery, half-glimpsed sun; cutting through bare woods and ice-rimmed streams, making for a tall granite ridge. Progress was steady, but slow, and the wind a constant, numbing assailant.

Presently, to break the monotony of thudding hooves and hissing snow flurries, Britte said,

"Sir… Have you traveled much?"

"Somewhat," he allowed, not looking around.

Gathering courage from the conversation's fair start, Britte asked,

"Then, if it be not too troublesome, Sir… may we hear tell of the farthest you've ventured?"

This time, he did glance aside, thinking for an instant that she referred to his sojourn in Faerie. But no… the squire's round face held nothing but warmth and a kind of shy adoration. No scorn nor accusation, at all. Relaxing a bit, he said,

"Well, then… th' lot of us… Kent, Ravencall, Argonne, Father and m'self… once were summoned t' battle at th' side of a chieftain of Tamar, and that is a far southern land; very hot and covered in crystal-white sands. You'd not think," he remarked, turning slightly toward her, "that bein' so heated, th' folk there would don many clothes, but they wrap themselves up until only their eyes show. They've very dark eyes an' fearsome tattoos all over; e'en th' ladies, my oath on it. Live all in tents, they do, and swear by strange gods. Their music was odd t' my notion, but th' food… _that_, I'd certainly wish m'self back for."

Britte's freckle-dusted face was utterly rapt. Leaning forward past Chester's upright and muscular torso, she asked,

"What was the very most wonderful dish, Sir? Some gold-leafed cake or rare spice?"

But the red-haired knight shook his head, smiling at far-distant memory.

"Nay, lass. Th' best of all was a sort of fruit, unlike any we have in th' north. It is smallish and ruddy, with not a peel but a thick, bitter rind. The inside is divided in segments which, bitten without proper care, will drip all over one's chin. But in flavour… it has something of th' sun's warmth and th' priest's chants all wrapped in it. At once pleasing an' strange."

Then, returning halfway from reverie, Gawain added,

"Our business complete and his foemen sent scurryin', th' chieftain offered t' trade sons with my father, that we might dwell in each other's country awhile an' strengthen our bond… but father refused, as he could not very well break up th' order. Still…"

The knight shrugged, rattling no chain mail nor sword belt, as he wasn't wearing such.

"…I do sometimes bethink m'self, what it would have been like."

"Perhaps we'll go there together, Sir," Britte suggested, drifting into imagined adventure, her hands deeply twined in Chester's wild mane.

"Perhaps so," the knight answered, "If ever we're called in that direction. One goes where summoned, lass."

_…and does as ordered,_ he didn't quite finish aloud. How could he?

Just before sunset, they reached the scree-covered base of that towering ridge; grey as the clouds and nearly as cold. With night coming on and the forest stirring, Sir Gawain set what wards he could, while Britte and Chester made camp. On the morrow, they'd start for the top.


	37. 37: Negotiation

Terribly sorry to be late, folks! This weekend, I helped my daughter study for her algebra, French and IPS exams... phew! More to follow, soon.

**37: Negotiation**

_Rio de Janeiro, the Presidential Palace, Blue Room-_

Jeff's heart pounded. His blood seemed to race like thunderous wind in his ears, sparking a major headache. On the outside, though, he managed to look very calm.

"I beg your pardon?" he said to Minister Cardona (a man as slim and precise as an orchestral conductor). "You'd like to share _what?"_

Cardona smiled, but it was a skull or a reptile's expression; utterly cold and quite dry.

"Come, Senhor Tracy," he said to his guest, brown eyes drilling at Jeff's, "We are businessmen, and such games do not become us." The minister's moustache and tightly-clipped beard traced a narrow, dark circle round his mouth and sharp chin. It gave him an avid, ferrety look. Added the minister,

"I am aware of you connection to International Rescue, Senhor… knowledge I fully intend to exploit."

But Jeff only shook his grey head. Standing erect amid the quivering gleam of chandeliers and polished brass, he said,

"You've been misinformed, Cardona. Whoever brought you these… whatever they are… altered pictures, doctored files, outright lies… Whoever sold them to you is out there right now, spending your money and laughing his a** off. I'm no more involved with IR than you're the next Dodge City Rodeo Queen."

For just an instant, the Brazilian defense minister floundered for words, looking irritated. Then,

"I was advised that you would be clever, with more twists and feints than a snake. But there is no escape except cooperation, for we have a witness…"

"Who could have been bribed or intimidated."

"…and documents…"

"Easily forged."

"…as well as your son."

"Being held here against his will, in clear violation of international law. In light of all this, Cardona, you'd better be one careful d-mn blackmailer, because you're about to have a bloodthirsty swarm of attorneys and data-miners land on your a** like an avalanche. By the time they're done, you won't be able to get a job on the street corner, washing car windows."

Leaning forward (for he was taller and broader than the defense minister) the former astronaut snapped,

"I take my company's reputation for integrity very seriously, Cardona. Tracy Aerospace was built from the ground up by _me,_ using what I learned in the Air Force and WSA. It might as well be another one of my children. I regard these allegations as a clear threat to that child… like the way you're refusing to turn Virgil over."

Cardona had not expected so spirited a response. He took a half-step backward; his expensive, crocodile shoes clicking on bright marble tile.

"Senhor, you are not…"

But Jeff wasn't finished. Jabbing an aggressive forefinger at Cardona's sash-and-medal draped chest, he said,

"Now, the way I see it, you've got two options. _A_: you bring me my son and we all go out to the president's reception together like nothing ever happened, or _B_: you force me to call in my legal team and get ready for the goddam fight of your life. Your move, Cardona."

The smaller man's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His shoulders twitched. Very clearly, Jeff had just made a bitter and lifelong enemy.

"Senhor," spat Cardona, "your son shall be brought, together with the Norte Americano news team… But you would do well to gather those attorneys close about you and bury deep all of your money; for the death of _his_ body will not end his plans. There is more, and yet worse, to come."

Understandably, Jeff Tracy ate very little at the state reception held in his honor. Instead, he watched his back and the clock. Three hours later, the former astronaut was headed for home with Virgil; scanning the grim contents of a certain black moleskine notebook.

_Tracy Island, in the clinic's luxurious waiting room-_

Alan slouched low in a big leather chair. Yeah, he was worried about Gordon, but still watching TinTin, as well. Curled up in a chair of her own, pretending to read, the girl was heart-tearing pretty and sort of… y'know… _deep_. There were things about her that he simply did not understand; emotions flitting across her tired face that frankly puzzled him.

"Well," he said, taking a sudden brave stab at conversation, "anyway, the Hood's probably dead. That's a good thing, right?"

TinTin looked up from her long-unturned page; raising big, liquid-dark eyes. But instead of agreeing with him, she only said,

"A spirit such as my uncle's does not go quietly, Alan. His hand in death will only clutch harder."

The words sent an icy-cold trickle through Alan Tracy's gut, but he refused to show any fear. (Not manly, and junk.)

"Dang, T… he's not Freddy Krueger, or anything! This is the _real_ world, Chica. Trust me; when people die, they stay in the ground, popping daisies and mushrooms like a good little corpse."

TinTin managed a smile, though her heart was sore troubled.

"Of course," she murmured. "You must forgive me, Alan. It has been… I'm rather drained, is all."

Alan's heart began pounding.

"Well, sure," he responded (trying for casual). "I can understand that. I mean… people getting possessed, the core going nuts, Virgil being kidnapped and then Gordon all shot full of holes… Heck, anybody'd start imagining things. I mean, buttered toast would stand up on the plate and prophecy doom. But, um…"

His face reddened and his voice got higher and faster as Alan went on to say,

"If there's anything I can do to help out… anything you need, let me know, okay? I'm, uh… always gonna be there for you, T. Seriously."

She smiled at him, then, and if the world had been fair, would have said something nice. Instead, the clinic doors swung halfway open and Brains peered out, rubbing with one hand at the stinging blue eyes behind his thick glasses.

"H- He's awake and, ah… and asking f- for you, TinTin… And Alan, too, of c- course."

The girl sprang instantly upright, her unread book thudding to the carpeted floor.

"Thank you, Brains!" she cried, kissing the startled man's cheek as she scurried past him into the clinic. "Thank you for the wonderful news!"

"Yeah, dude…" Alan muttered, with much less enthusiasm, "and thanks for the sucky dang timing."

As he trudged inside (nursing the granddaddy of all mixed feelings) and TinTin raced like a freed sparrow to Gordon's bedside, John and Doctor Bennett withdrew to the post-op clean room. She to scrub down, John to offer soap, thanks and assistance.

"Your brother should be okay, now," Linda told him, splashing her face at the stainless steel sink and then feeling around for a towel. When he placed one in her groping hands, Linda scrubbed away suds and exhaustion, saying, "The kid's got a constitution like a Clydesdale… Must be all of that early Olympic training."

Or something else. Suspicious, half-explained gunshot wounds and John's tight relations with International Rescue made for a very strange mix. One she'd have asked more about, had the doctor been better able to focus. Later, maybe.

For the moment, Linda untied and cast off her pale green surgical tunic, beneath which lay tee-shirt, jeans and (to her way of thinking) completely inadequate curves. John saw things differently, though. He smiled a little because, even at full, yawning stretch, she was _still_ short.

Linda pretended not to notice his interest. Looking away, she rotated her head; rolling it back and forth, side to side on slim, tension-stiff shoulders. At least, she did until John reached over to rub the back of her sore neck (meanwhile stepping far too close for clear thinking).

"Didn't I drive you off with a stick, the last time you tried putting moves on me?" she demanded (but not very crossly). Then, when he paused in massaging her, "I didn't mean you had to stop."

John smiled. Very tall, very handsome and very, very hard to resist. Resuming the rhythmic, relaxing caress, he said,

"Does this mean I'm cleared for the resupply mission?"

"Maybe."

"What about dinner?"

"You're pushing your luck, Tracy… I'd say _no_, but my stomach's about to eat a hole through my abdominal wall, so dinner it is. Mexican food; the stronger the better. Tacos, nachos, whatever. Anything spicy enough to make me stop tasting iodine."

"Okay," he replied, reaching for his cell phone. "I think we can handle that."

Of course, (Kyrano being off duty at the time) John wound up in the kitchen, experimenting with frozen burritos and gallons of hot sauce; but the meal would not have been half so entertaining with less hazardous food. On the bright side, she _did_ forget all about iodine.


	38. 38: Labyrinth

Phew! Summer, at last! Thanks very much for your patience, folks. This story (and the other) will soon be completed. =)

**38: Labyrinth**

_Tracy Island, the clinic-_

TinTin raced into the brightly-lit, beeping and blinking recovery room as fast as two shapely legs and an anxious heart could carry her. She had enough experience with the area as Brains' assistant, to read the med-scanner above Gordon's bed; detecting stabilized vital signs and fading anesthesia. More than that, spotting the clear evidence of his rapid, active recovery.

Forcing herself to be calm, the girl slowed to a walk and drew near. He seemed so unlike himself, lying there hooked to machines. So pitifully vulnerable.

"Gordon?" TinTin whispered, "Are you awake? Alan is here, and I am, as well. Can you hear me?"

The young man wore an opaque plastic oxygen mask. His bandaged torso was hidden beneath a curving tunnel of treatment and scanning devices; machinery which constantly monitored, dosed and re-hydrated him. Gordon couldn't do much more than open his eyes and turn his head when she spoke to him, but even that much lifted TinTin's spirits. His response was puzzling, though.

"Wanted to say I'm sorry," he told her, in a voice that she had to bend quite low to hear.

"Sorry…? For what?" TinTin asked, risking a chorus of angry, mechanized beeps by touching his face. He had no need to apologize for what had passed, once, between them. Nothing dreadful had happened, and no one else knew.

"For not getting the job done. Should've been better prepared… tried harder."

"Dude, shut up," Alan snapped, from the bed's other side. "You're not making any sense, here. The fire's out, okay? You and Brains beat it down well enough for the locals to take over. _And_ you rescued a frickin' pilot who shouldn't have been there in the first place. What more do you want, a cookie?"

Gordon shifted his gaze; wincing as though the effort made him dizzy.

"Keep the cookie," he told Alan, unable to quite smile with that oxygen masked strapped into place. "Settle for beating your a** at basketball, again."

Alan grinned; at once mischievous and calculating. 'Cause, dude... you shouldn't make dares you couldn't back up: Brotherhood 101.

"Yeah. I'll take that threat seriously when you can manage to frickin' _stand,_ Gordon… or when the internal bleeding stops, whichever comes first. Right now, you couldn't win a "Really Mean Look" contest."

Laughter was out of the question; too painful. A crooked motion of the air mask showed that Gordon was trying to smile again, though. Then,

"Th- That's enough," Brains scolded them all. "You'll, ah… You'll wear him out, and s- slow his recovery. John's doctor friend can't, ah… can't stay here f- forever, you know. T- Too risky."

"Saved by the nursemaid," Alan remarked, shaking his tousled blond head in mock frustration. "But as soon as the tubes and band-aids're off, Bro, you and me'll settle this man to man. We'll square off at the backyard hoops for bragging rights and… and a date with TinTin."

Whoa. Alan had never seen a wider pair of dark, lovely eyes, or a sick guy with quite such a dangerous scowl.

_Streaking over the sunlit Pacific, in a company Lear Jet-_

The notebook had made it through among Virgil's personal effects; carefully hidden and transferred each time he'd been moved, treated or questioned. The rescued young man had done his level best to maintain the illusion of a spoiled, petulant playboy; distracting his hosts with demands for privacy, internet access, fine food and designer clothing. (Almost blew his cover on the last one, too, as he couldn't recall any high-end fashion houses and had to bluff.)

If he'd been thinking straight, he'd have left the Moleskine notebook in Thunderbird 1, but Taylor and her cameraman had been present the whole time, looking around like two people determined to memorize every bolt, strap and hinge. A black notebook "accidentally" left behind would hardly have escaped their sharp-eyed attention. At best, they'd have given it back to him. At worst, WNN would have gotten its hands on critical Hood-gathered data._ International Rescue_ data.

Anyhow, Virgil had managed to keep and protect the thing, handing it to his father once the plane took off and their corporate bodyguards left the executive cabin. It was sort of an even exchange, actually, for Jeff gave him a package at the same moment, saying,

"Your mother put a few things together for you, Son. At the time, it seemed wiser to have her stay home and hold the fort while I flew to Brazil. Otherwise, she'd be here, too."

Virgil looked up from Lucinda's loving note and well-packed snack foods. He was seated across a polished wooden pedestal table from his father, in a reclining tan-leather seat. (Good thing, too, as the plane's engine noise and subtle vibrations were making him sleepy.)

"I understand," he said, smiling a tired but genuine smile. "According to the news, there's been a lot going on. So... all things considered, I appreciate you coming to get me in person, Dad."

Jeff frowned a little, accepting a whiskey sour from the Lear's pertly-uniformed flight attendant. Virgil got a cold, frothy Coors; his favorite.

"Thanks," Jeff remarked, scarcely glancing at the woman. Then, "There was never a question of my sending a substitute or letting Interpol handle the matter… though I _do_ have a number of contacts in that organization."

The tall older man stopped talking a moment to bolt his drink. Down it went, in a stiff-wristed, head-thrown-back flood. Then, once the high-octane burn had died down somewhat, Jeff resumed speaking.

"We're family," he said. "We take care of each other; something that might get lost in all the chaos and trouble, if we let it. _Which…_ (Miss Lindon? Landon, sorry. I'll take another whiskey sour, please, light on the rocks.) …Which I'm determined not to allow. After all, it's not much use saving the world if you let your nearest down in the process."

Virgil nodded seriously; starting on a sandwich while his father settled down with the newly-made drink. Casually, he made sure to look at the attendant's eyes, which turned out to be quite reassuringly brown. After his experiences with the _last_ flight crew and driver, Virgil couldn't help feeling a few thorn-like stabs of worry.

"Yeah," he agreed, chasing a giant mouthful of roast beef and mustard with ice-cold beer, "that makes sense."

Then he got quiet, to give his father time to examine that notebook. Minutes passed. Jeff's craggy face grew pale and haggard in the merciless high altitude sunlight; his frown lines deepening as the pages turned.

"This is bad," he said at last, risking nothing more specific in mixed (and possibly altered) company. "Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Son… and for having the strength to help rescue yourself."

Perhaps affected by alcohol and stress, Jeff reached over to pat Virgil's broad shoulder.

"A lot went into finding and freeing you, Son, but a big part of that was your own determination and quick thinking. I'm proud of you, Virgil, and d-mn glad to have you back. _D-mn_ glad."

…On the other hand, there were agents of the Hood still about and preparing to strike, unknown "witnesses" claiming that Jeff Tracy ran International Rescue, and the threat of a rapidly faltering core. Nothing and no one was truly safe, yet. Nor could anyone rest.

_Midworld, at the frigid base of a tall granite cliff-_

Sir Gawain kept watch the entire night through; standing a vigil he'd begun in earnest when the witch first spoke her advice. Sleep he would not… nor eat… until the House, Bridge and Altar were finished. Afterward, well… Everything depended on whether or not he succeeded.

The watches of night dragged past like a trickling runnel of mud. Darkness brought moon-tides of foulness; creatures with glowing pale eyes and a sharp, fungus smell. Silent, mostly, though once in awhile he heard a faint, rasping hiss or the rattle of loosened scree. Wretched they might be, but wise enough to avoid his swiftly-rigged ward stones and shield lines; peering within but not daring to cross.

Meanwhile, Blanchard shuddered and snorted. The destrier's eyes were white-rimmed and wide in the moonlight. Held by a peace spell, the horse did not bolt and neither did Chester. They'd have been swarmed and devoured, otherwise.

Britte crouched on the Centaur's shivering back, her pouch of stones close at hand. Once in awhile, she came near to panic, but a touch from the knight each time steadied her. Other things came, as well; some of which fluttered on leathery wings and had breath like the gas from a corpse. Others scuttled and sprang, burning whenever they leapt past a ward line. These shriveled and stank, the sputtering light of their end revealing a cliff-face teeming in thousands of shiny dark bodies.

Britte had never met with such horrors. She swallowed hard and plucked a smooth stone from her bag, the other hand convulsively tightening on Gawain's red cloak. He looked at her, then, saying,

"You've nothin' t' fear so long as you stay within bounds, lass. They'll not cross th' ward lines and live."

"But the others?" she whispered, genuinely worried. "Kel and Laney and their mum? Sir... why should the witch keep _them_ safe, even if she looks to her own?"

Gawain paused a bit before answering. Once, he'd have thought the same way, but friendship had taught him better. Over a sour wind and creaking bare branches, he said,

"Because there is more than one path t' th' same destination, Britte… and because our fellow travelers look not always th' way we'd expect."

Talking helped keep back the night terrors, so the squire ventured to say,

"Sometimes they look like a dark elf?"

"And other times much like a witch or an orc-wife, aye. Take whatever assistance may come t' you, Lass, with thanks t' th' giver. Mind you, 'tis no teaching of the Order, that, but a thing I've learnt on my own. Have my tongue out with a hot iron f'r sayin' so, they would… but 'tis true, nevertheless."

Britte nodded, determined to remember all that he told her. She who knew no gods and recalled no real family was beginning to carve out a place for herself. And frightening though their present situation might be, she'd not have left Gawain for kingdoms and worlds. Not without the nudge of his peace spell, at any rate.

Britte awoke with a start when dawn began striking glints from frost and stone and ice-glazed branches. Feeling terribly guilty, the girl tried to apologize, but Gawain wasn't angry. He clouted her lightly on the head, saying,

"My doin', not yours. Someone must rest, t' keep better watch should the other lose strength. Now... down you get, and pick up those ward stones. But make certain t' say "dispel" before doin' so. I came near t' losin' a hand, once, through neglectin' _that_ bit of wisdom." (And Lord Morcar had got a good laugh at his scorched, red-haired squire's expense.)

The girl slid off of Chester's back, freeing the colt to caper about and loosen stiff muscles. Then, once the stones were collected and brought back to Gawain, Britte broke fast on salted beef and hard biscuit. The knight ate nothing.

Chester had some of the biscuit and a quantity of conjured dried fruit. This, in turn, interested Blanchard, with whom Chester was becoming fast friends. Half a watch later, camp broken and business seen to, they found a switch-backed trail up the cliff side.

Of those fearsome night-things, all that remained were dark, slimy puddles, some of them smeared with leathery tatters or bits of cracked shell. Gawain led them around these marks whenever possible, for they hissed in the light and stank of decay. On the cliff trail, however, all they could do was mutter protection and step swiftly over.

Here, Gawain did not ride, choosing instead to lead his horse up the steep, frozen path. Britte came after on Chester, who clung fast to Blanchard's long tail. In this manner, as the hours ground past and away, they scaled to a very great height. Stones rattled and slid underfoot. An ice-clawed wind hammered and plucked at the knight and his squire, slowing progress to almost a crawl.

About halfway up, Britte risked a glance downward, and then hastily snapped her gaze back to safe, solid Chester. The trees, grey and reaching, seemed very far, very tiny. Her end, should she fall, as shattering-swift as a dropped egg's.

Britte was drenched in sweat by the time they gained the debatable safety of that barren cliff top. She was very glad when Gawain led them away from its dizzying edge, taking Chester's hand as he would have seized the bridle or reins of a packhorse. He brought them to the shelter of a great, wind-carved boulder and then dismounted, saying,

"Here, we part company. Do you care f'r th' horse and keep watch, Lass. I shall return as quick as I may."

Britte leaned down from the centaur's back to place a hand on his sleeve.

"But, Sir… you've no weapons or armour! What if…" She shuddered, tightening her grip. "What if one of those _things_ should attack you? How will you defend yourself, alone?"

Gawain drew gently away from her, shaking his coppery head. Then, rather wryly, he said,

"When pinned t' th' ground by a lion, one does not fear th' rat, Britte. I shall be well enough, unless killed outright by th' one as summoned me."

Still, the knight hesitated, torn between haste, and the need to explain.

"Britte," he said urgently. "Though you are not yet a knight, or one of the Order, there is somethin' I would show you. Now… mark this well, f'r I may tell it but once."

The girl's eyes widened at the the rush and tension of his voice.

"Yes, Sir," she replied, dismounting so hurriedly that the blanket and pad were dragged clear off of Chester's shaggy bay back.

When she'd come to stand at his side, Gawain conjured a stick and began drawing upon the hard ground, speaking to be heard over cackling wind sprites. Very carefully… line by line, word by memorized word… he handed on what his father had shown him, many years earlier. For Britte, watching and harking intently, time seemed almost to halt.

A diagram it was, though one which made no sense at all in a world of but four directions and one path for time: the House, Bridge and Altar. In truth, the drawing just about burnt its way into her mind, there to stay until needed. A chaotic sprawl it appeared to her.

External walls encompassed the whole like a spiked and angular clam's shell, while a long, curving path slid in and out among worlds, leading from a partly real gateway, through many strange levels to a high central pillar. She grasped these things because Gawain described them; providing the correct number of steps, required orientation, keywords and stone placement. Then, when the matter was done, he made a sign in the air and scuffed out his diagram, leaving no trace of the Order's great secret.

"_That,"_ he told her, straightening once more, "is why I've come t' this place, and why you must keep well away, both of you. Watch and remember, but make no move t' intervene, no matter what you may see."

Britte's round face settled into stubborn, rebellious lines. Before she could speak, though, Chester stretched forth both hands to take Gawain's shoulders.

"Da…" the colt blurted anxiously, "bad fight… again? Bad hurt? Need us… need us for help you?"

Something inside him shrank and curled tight like charred, burning paper. Obviously, Chester had seen what happened in Faerie; no doubt standing with Anelle all through her champion's last battle. Finding it hard to think or to breathe (needing escape from concerned faces and painful questions) Gawain twisted aside.

He avoided another lunge easily enough, for the colt was frantic, while he... he just wanted to go. Speaking a word of power, he inscribed fiery lines on the stony cliff top, raising waist-high blue flames to fence off his squire and adopted young colt.

"Keep back," he repeated gruffly, "and take care of each other. If I can… if allowed to… I shall find a way t' return."

With that, the knight turned and left them. Possibly, Britte and Chester called out to him, but Gawain drove away all thought of companions and loved ones. He had but one purpose, now; building the thing he'd just sketched in the soil, using muscle, magick and lore.

The proper location drew him at once, being the highest west-facing spot on that wind scoured cliff. Had he yet been a full paladin and knight of the Order, Gawain would have stood awhile quietly, listening for the will of his deity. But as this was no longer possible, he simply gathered up rocks and scouted the territory, visualizing what he must build. That took some doing, for the structure was not of this world, time or substance and would exist as much in idea as matter.

It went this way: first, he set an array of corner stones, placing mighty walls of bright force between them, and never pausing to rest. In his head and the diagram, this jumble of lines had cut across itself many times, but here they unfolded in more than the usual number of… of… angles?

He had not the words for what was emerging, but with it came unwanted memory. Vivid recollections of Faerie… love and warfare, shame and loss… and his earlier refusal to harm Drehn… rose up to confront him. And this time, he could not turn away. This time, he was forced to relive every instant.

The work provided some distraction, at least. Moving along set, rigid paths, speaking here and there an ancient keyword, Gawain caught glimpses of himself at different sites on the building. Sometimes from behind or above, split in half or seemingly turned inside out. All of them laboring at separate tasks.

The shimmering walls rose ever higher, solid in all the places that Midworld could encompass; elsewhere mere phantoms of light. He soon lost track of time and physical limitation. Stopped really thinking, because such a work had got to be finished once started.

Sometimes walking a straight, level line was as draining as climbing a tree in full armour. Other times "up" drew him as effortlessly as falling straight down would have done. But always, the work continued. All along, there were voices, with odd crystal notes like the chirping music of Faerie. The image and imprint of Anelle were everywhere present as well, as though what he built with was raw emotion rather than power and rock.

Snow clouds vanished and so did the cliff. Without external cues, he had no way to gauge the passage of time. But if many long weeks could be wound up in skeins as tightly as wool, then that was what happened. His effort was folded and refolded, compressed and coiled so that all at braided once, the job was accomplished.

Right, then. Gawain stood numbly in front of a great, searing pillar; floor curving off to one side, Midworld vanished away. He ought to have felt triumph (or at least concern) but the suddenness of the thing and his own ragged exhaustion made the knight terribly slow to react. Nor did looking about himself help, for the view was altered in very strange ways whenever he moved his head.

Turning leftward brought far higher sites into view, while glancing at his boots provided a look through some sort of window, into a chamber of metal and lights. In living memory no one had opened this channel, so Gawain had no clear idea what to do next. Address his summoner, possibly?

The voice came while he was yet deciding which keyword to speak. Not a roar or thunderbolt, but composed of his own rapid heartbeat and breathing, it was.

_-Why are you come? -_ Someone asked.


	39. 39: Long Shots

Thanks very much, Tikatu, Mitzy, Sam and Silver Bee, for your helpful reviews. Bit long and transitional, with this one, but there's been a lot going on.

**39: Long Shots**

Nature hates a vacuum and chaos seeks equilibrium; two facts that every physicist, thaumaturge and stage-show magician kept ever in the front of their minds. Things would spontaneously pop into being to fill up a vacuum, and even the most bass-ackward mess would eventually sort itself (though, it must be emphasized, not necessarily _well.)_

In this case, the world government's slow response to Earth's fading core and wandering poles led to thousands of misguided schemes being tried out by their crackpot developers. Sometimes the results were near-fatal, or genuinely dangerous. Sometimes merely funny.

But always, International Rescue had to look and assess and be ready, just in case matters went wrong. This was Jeff's responsibility, and he kept at it; staying at his desk until his brown eyes were sandy and burning for want of sleep. Sometimes the decisions were quick and easy.

The guy who'd decided to hike down through a tapped-out South African diamond mine with an explosive "core-alizer" strapped to his back…? _Definitely_ had to be stopped. But sometimes his decisions were far more carefully weighed.

The government's magma-plume recharge scheme…? Not as simple. Call it a nervous close-watcher; especially with the proposed crew of Spectrum officer, Empire State University physicist and embedded WNN news hound.

In the meantime, Earth's weather and navigational problems kept right on mounting up. There would be violent storms, wrecked ships and out-of-fuel, off-course airplanes, many of which would ask for, and get, IR assistance.

"Project Recovery" was supposed to resolve all this, but Jeff remained skeptical. For one thing, ESU's brilliant plan to reach a near-surface magma plume and then jolt the vast thing with intense electromagnetic energy was entirely untested, outside of a few hastily-programmed computer models.

For another, the plan would use blatantly ripped-off Tracy Aerospace tech. ESU's scientists meant to adapt a lunar robot mining drill, making it large enough to carry a crew and their powerful field generator. But altering anything about a working system design… anything at all… could lead to serious and unforeseen complications.

Watching official footage and simulations, listening to this Myrna Something-or-other's earnest explanations, Jeff shook his head. No one could fail to see Tracy Aerospace in that giant, rock-chewing nightmare. And if the plan failed (or, worse yet, fatally backfired) accusing fingers would soon be pointed at Jeff and his built-from-scratch company. Already, Tracy Aerospace stock was beginning to slide.

On top of all this, the Discovery Adventure Team had announced their intention to "…plumb the Earth's depths in search of an answer. (And ratings)"

At this point, every brain cell Jeff possessed had it own crushing migraine.

"We're going to have to shadow both missions," he decided, "and find some way to stop the worst free-lance idiots before they get themselves killed. Hopefully, South Africa's in a cooperative mood."

If not, they were just going to have to go in without official permission and take the consequences afterward. Wonderful. Sighing gustily, Jeff took a few helpful swallows of coffee, and then muted the blaring wall-screen. Nothing there he needed to see again, no matter what the World News Network thought.

About the time Scott wandered into his office, looking tired and restless, Jeff had picked up that black Moleskine notebook, again.

"Hey, Dad," his oldest son greeted him, taking a chair close by the big wooden desk. "Good morning or evening, whichever's appropriate."

Jeff glanced down at his wrist comm.

"Morning, by just about two and a half hours," he replied. "I'd try to get some rest, but it's hard to stop thinking long enough to sleep. Especially with _this_ goddam thing in my lap."

He tossed the small sketchbook to Scott, who caught it quite deftly and opened the cover.

"The notebook Virge took off of his guard in Altaplano?" Scott hazarded, glancing up at his stony-faced father.

"One and the same. Skip through the first few pages; all they contain is innocent artwork. But further in… presumably around the time its owner was seized by the Hood… things start to get scary."

Scott began flipping pages, his blue-violet eyes moving swiftly from lively pencil sketches to…

"_Phew…"_ he whistled, running a big hand through his expensively-shorn raven hair. "That's a real eye-opener."

For the later pages were covered in diagrams, numbers and dates. There were top and side drawings of each 'Bird, with detailed descriptions of their strengths, weaknesses and susceptibility to capture.

Nor was this all. Jeff's name was in there, along with those of his wife and grown sons; each name followed by a list of known email and phone contacts. It was a full on, cold-water shock to see old school friends and squad mates on that list, together with his high school sweetheart, Leeann.

Something cold and unpleasant seemed to drain right down and puddle at the base of Scott's spine. Looking up at his father, again, the pilot whispered huskily,

"Think they got all this from Virgil, while he was drugged?"

Jeff began shifting the items on his yards-wide teak desktop, rearranging them in ever more orderly patterns.

"Maybe..." he said at last. "But that's beside the point. What matters is that this information reached the Hood through one of his possessed minions… and may have been transferred to others. Assuming that Belaghant is actually dead…"

("Always a long shot," muttered Scott.)

"…that still leaves us with extremely sensitive information in the hands of a shifting and unknown enemy. If Al Jenkins calls up for a meeting… if Leeann suddenly invites you to dinner… how could we be certain they haven't been compromised? I'm particularly worried about the list of dates, Son. One coincides with the World Trade Conference. The other lines up with a proposed ground-breaking ceremony for WSA's Tracy-Chase testing facility. Both of which I'm scheduled to attend."

Scott nodded, thinking hard.

"So, heave a spanner in the works," he suggested. "Send me to the conference and John to the ground-breaking. Unannounced. Last-minute. Sheer surprise at the switch might just throw 'em off."

"Or endanger the two of you," his father protested.

"Not if we're forewarned, and they're caught with their fly unzipped, peeing out the window."

Jeff smiled a little, despite himself.

"Not that you'd ever…"

"Of course not. I'm not stationed in Bachelor Officer's Quarters anymore, and Mom wouldn't stop with just killing me."

Both men winced at the thought, and then Scott asked,

"Where is she, anyway? I promised to give her a full account of the Brazil mission… my end… once I got up."

His father sat back in the big leather office chair, causing wheels to squeak and joints to pop. Almost, but not quite, a stretch.

"She's been seeing to Virgil and Gordon," said Jeff. "_Should_ be resting, but you know women… have to do things their own way, every time."

Especially Lucinda Tracy. After all, she'd written her own piano sonata at the age of seven, playing international concert halls all of her life. Somewhat delicately, Scott ventured,

"She did pretty well handling the desk, I thought. Not better than _you,_ but… you know… pretty good."

Said his father, smiling tiredly,

"Son, I'm not jealous, and I'll gladly take whatever help I can get. If your mother feels comfortable enough with what we're doing to pitch in, then I'm more than happy to let her… And you can tell her I said so."

Scott smiled broadly, relieved on one point, at least. Standing up, he shook hands with Jeff.

"Okay. Guess I'll head out to look for her, then. But I was serious about the conference and ground-breaking suggestion, Dad. John and I can take care of ourselves; and a sudden target-swap might be all it takes to derail whatever they've got planned."

Jeff stood up, too.

"I'll give it some thought," he promised. "In the meantime, give your mom a hug for me, and if you see Kyrano, ask him to bring up more coffee, unless he seems busy or…"

"Upset?" Scott finished, bleakly.

Jeff nodded, saying,

"Exactly. It's got to be hard for him… receiving word that his brother's body was discovered… but if so, he's not showing it, and I don't know quite what to say. The Hood tried repeatedly to kill members of my family and steal our technology. He's caused untold disaster and suffering, and left in place the means to cause more. _But…"_

"But he was Kyrano's brother and TinTin's uncle, and that stirs up all kinds of weird feelings."

"Could be worse," Jeff remarked, only half-humorously. "One of you could be married to TinTin, with the Hood for an in-law."

Scott wasn't certain what made him say it. Sheer devilment, possibly, or… just testing the waters?

"Or, one of us could be dating a news reporter," he suggested, watching his father's proud face very carefully.

"No," Jeff told him. "One of you couldn't. Breach of security, company policy and plain common sense, Scott. In shorter words: not just no, but _h3ll_ no."

Not much grey area, there. A wise man knew when to fall back and save himself for future engagements, so...

"Point taken, Sir… if not necessarily agreed with. I'll see you at breakfast, unless all h3ll breaks loose, or one of the Hood's lieutenants needs a four-alarm a$$-kicking."

They parted company on respectful, slightly wary terms, sensing trouble to come and not liking it.

"See you later," Jeff sighed, watching as his tall, straight-backed son stalked out through the office door. Children were supposed to become less troublesome and unpredictable once they grew up… weren't they?

_Earlier, just outside Tracy Island's high tech infirmary-_

TinTin Kyrano waited until they were away from Brains and Gordon before rounding on Alan; furious as a feral and cornered small cat.

"Alan, how _could_ you?" she snapped, dark eyes ablaze beneath tightly-knit brows. "I am not… not to be asked for a date in such a manner and place! I…"

"You're with Gordon?" Alan shot back, hands balled into fists in his pockets. That cut her off short and sharp.

TinTin's head lifted and her expression changed, from just plain angry to uncertain (and angry).

"Whether I am 'with' anyone is unimportant, Alan. I am not a trophy. I cannot be handed to the sweaty winner of a basketball game!"

"But you like him," Alan insisted, his sky-blue eyes direct and searching. "You think he's… I dunno… strong and shy, or something. You'd go out with him, if he asked you to."

His golden-blond hair was getting in his eyes, and his voice kept cracking. Hardly the way Alan had planned on looking and sounding when he finally told TinTin how he felt about her. Not that the beautiful girl seemed to find his statements at all funny, or anything.

She said, very quietly,

"Your brother is a dear friend to me," _(with kisses as warm and questing-soft as a near-lover's.)_ "You are both very dear, and have been from childhood, but I am not permitted by my papa to be serious, yet, with anyone. I must complete my education and tour of Europe, first."

_(But, oh, how close they'd come, she and Gordon, that time in the poolside equipment shed. Had she not shied at the pain, not wept…? What then? Would she now be the young Mrs. Tracy, with a costly ring on her hand and a tiny babe growing within?)_

"T… Are you crying? Hey, stop that. C'mon, for real… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry, okay?"

Alan dug out the closest thing he had to a handkerchief; the hem of his wrinkly shirt. Yanking it up, he dabbed at TinTin's wet face, feeling worried and miserable and deeply in possible love.

"I just… really, really like you, is all, and maybe I don't have the best way of showing it… but I could be a great boyfriend. The best! I'd take you places and buy you stuff and listen when you talk about science and engineering. 'Cause… what I'd like is a chance to prove myself and make up for what a dork I was, when we were kids. That's all. Don't cry. If you like Gordon… hey, I get it. Dude's famous. He's got all kinds of medals and magazine covers and junk."

"I have them," TinTin snuffled, getting control of herself once again. "Your brother gave each of his Olympic medals to me, once the time for photo shoots ended."

"Oh." Seriously, what could he say? What could he offer, that had any hope of competing with something like _that?_ "Well… Someday, when I start winning car races, I'll hand over my trophies and cups, okay?"

TinTin smiled thinly, then tiptoed up to kiss Alan's cheek. Just then, she felt terribly lost and aching-confused.

"You are both very dear to me," she repeated, in a slightly quaver-y voice. …And university could not resume soon enough.

_In another part of the house, at nearly the same time-_

John followed up that taste-bud corroding dinner with the one thing he could cook: Pop-Tart ice cream sandwiches. (Not that it was hard or anything; toast Pop-Tarts, pile ice cream between them and eat.)

He came out to the dining room balcony with two plates and a couple of beers, only just not spilling the whole lot when he backed through a set of half-open French doors. Linda jumped up to assist him, mostly in order to take her mind off of her capsaicin-and-singe blasted sensory apparatus. Well… there wasn't a whole lot he could do to screw up dessert, was there?

Warm, brown sugar Pop-Tarts and chocolate ice cream answered that question with a cheery, high-cal wave. Sighing, Dr. Bennett set their plates down upon the glass-topped wrought-iron table while John used a hard metal chair curlicue to open the beers. Clever.

"Sunshine," she said, sitting down to potential disaster. "You are quite possibly the worst cook I've ever encountered."

"Only _'possibly'_?" he remarked, handing Linda a spoon. "I'm making progress, then."

It was quite breezy that night, with wisps of cloud like fine veils streaming across the face of the Moon and deep heavens. In the middle distance, like a constant, rumbling song, the ocean thundered and hissed. Anyhow, the beer was cold, and the company… Well, maybe Tracy was starting to get to her.

Linda broke through a hot, sugary Pop-Tart with the edge of her spoon; scooping up a generous portion of chocolate, as well.

"Yeah," she replied, after eyeing and then downing the morsel. "You're making progress. So's your brother, for that matter… You know, this isn't bad. Wouldn't serve it at state functions, or anything, but it certainly beats the burritos from hell."

"Taste any iodine?" he asked, calmly.

"No," Linda admitted, scraping her plate for another sweet smear of ice cream and toaster pastry.

"Then my work here is done. A follow-up treatment is strongly recommended, though. Symptoms have a way of returning, and you can't be too careful."

Linda sat back and sipped at her beer; closely regarding her friend, fellow astronaut and… whatever else he was starting to be.

"Are you going to be able to keep your brother out of trouble, from now on?" she asked him, changing the subject.

John cocked his blond head. For a moment, he looked rather wary.

"Will you be around to help patch him up, if not? And avoid reporting strange accidents to the police?" he asked her, making brief, intense eye-contact.

Tough one. Linda toyed with her mostly-full beer bottle, causing John to take it away and then down the remainder, himself; an intimate gesture which left her momentarily speechless.

"How do you know I wasn't going to finish that?" she sputtered.

"Because you never do," John replied reasonably, standing up to clear their table of post-dinner wreckage. "I always end up drinking your beers and covering your back, at work and at home with the family. They like you, I think… but you make them nervous. Especially dad."

Linda got up, too, and then followed her puzzling companion back through the French doors and into his family's jaw-dropping mansion. Another thought occurred, pushing her outrage over the beer incident far to the rear.

"John, when we were up in Freedom Station… or the robot shuttle, I forget which one… you said something about having a relationship with International Rescue. What did you mean by that? You know somebody on the team?" _(A quick-tempered, gun-shot prone brother, maybe?)_

They'd reached the kitchen by this time, and there was yet another big, fancy room that could have swallowed her entire apartment, with space left over for a catered lawn party. John was obviously used to it, though. Maybe the Tracys thought everyone's kitchen was the size of a warehouse.

John piled dishes in the gleaming metal sink without looking at her or immediately answering the question. Then he turned on the water; exactly the same amount, both handles, only long enough to wet down the plates. Reaching for soap and a brush, he next began scrubbing. His reply came suddenly, while bits of their dinner were consumed by the rumbling garbage disposal.

"I mean that I've had trouble out there, before, and that IR came along to help fix things."

"Enough times that you're now on a cozy, first name basis with several team members?" she probed, pulling a clean, fluffy dish towel from its ring to help with the drying. "How accident-prone _are_ you?"

"About as likely to experience technical glitches as Gordon is to leap in front of a bullet," he told her, without really answering the question, at all.

Still… he was WSA's "don't-touch" golden boy, and if John Tracy had a connection of some sort to International Rescue, the space agency surely knew about it. Right? So she said,

"Getting back to your brother… He's out of danger, but he'll need plenty of rest, sustained medication and treatment, and time to recuperate. Also, a series of follow-ups with your family physician."

"That would be you. If you're interested," John replied, putting a last tidied dish in the cherry-wood cabinet. Then, like pretty much all men, everywhere, he wiped his hands on his trousers; no doubt picking up germs and bacteria galore.

John Tracy was an unusually private person. Pretty clearly, there was more to the situation on this warm and beautiful island than she yet understood. More to _him,_ too.

"Okay. You win, Sunshine. I'll come back once or twice to check on Gordon," Dr. Bennett said hesitantly. "Off the record, and only if you provide transport. I prefer not to do my own flying, with GPS all screwed up, like this."

John's male-model face didn't change. Nor did his posture. But in some hard-to-catalogue way, he seemed to relax.

"That'll work," he decided briskly. "And I've got a good cover story. We'll say that you're here as a friend. For dinner and camping, or something like that."

All at once exhausted, Linda slumped against the granite countertop.

"I'm too tired to make any long-range decisions, John. What I need most right now is a stable, horizontal surface that won't be demolished when collapsed on. Preferably not the floor. Arrange _that,_ and I may just ask you to marry me."

Probably, she shouldn't have let him kiss her, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time; sweet and lingering and slightly like chocolate.


	40. 40: A Bitter and Contrary Wind

Sincere thanks for reading and reviewing, Bee! :)

**40: A Bitter and Contrary Wind**

_San Francisco, California, at the FiDi station of KZ102, WNN's local affiliate-_

Cindy Taylor didn't usually pester her boss, Jake Hall. Not safe. For one thing, the man was a walking angina/diabetes/chain-smoking bomb, liable to explode in a shower of rotted guts at the least provocation.

For another, he was unmarried (again) and hating it. And since arguments might put him in mind of wives (and thusly proposals), Cindy decided to keep her pressure subtle, and her attitude professionally brisk. Because… yeah… she had a request to make.

California was beautiful, in any case; San Francisco its rippling, cool-weather jewel. Just looking at rolling hillsides, wind-tossed greenery and the surging Pacific ought to have put _anyone_ in the mood to hand their favorite (hopefully) most consistent (generally) reporter the assignment of her effing _career._ Right?

Cindy nodded often at the sound of her name as she passed through the busy territory surrounding Jake's corner office. Worked a kind of subconscious triage as she threaded her way between cubicles, desks, phones and view-screens. Anything that sounded merely friendly or admiring got the nod-and-smile treatment, whereas voices with a bit of an edge to them earned a slow-down-and-look, with questioning half-smile.

You know… just in case there was a knife aimed at her back, or some world-beating headline news story about to break, which she'd d*mn well better be in on. And no, the World Trade Conference didn't count. Bunch of stuffy trillionaires flexing their economic muscle in full, helpless view of the public they'd addicted to their products and the nations which had passed tax-shelter laws to protect them. Just being around people like that made her want to have a good wash, afterward.

The new "Canadian Triangle" vanishing point, though… _that_ one bore watching. Five downed planes and a lost Boy Scout Troop were more than simple coincidence. Worth looking into, if Jake vetoed Plan A. Speaking of which…

Cindy paused just outside of his sanctum sanctorum to glance at Jake's secretary, Opal. An older woman with amazingly dyed hair and almost more rings than fingers, Opal Star Smith was too much of a free spirit to take offense at Jake's frequent rudeness and "artistic temperament". Prozac helped, too, of course.

Opal's mood-of-the-day neon display was colored mostly green today, with twinges of vile, stinging yellow. It hung like an innocent piece of artwork on the wall behind her desk, and had saved the sanity and careers of countless interns. Reporters, too. More than once, Cindy had turned around and left the area, rather than face Jake when those Opal-programmed tubes had blazed red.

Green wasn't so bad, though; signaling maybe a hangover or slight dip in the station's ratings. So, cocking a polite eyebrow at Opal for permission (which she got, along with a wry, encouraging smile), Cindy knocked once on the frosted glass door. Then, she walked in.

Jake had a face like a jowly and disipated bulldog; unshaven in all the neck and jaw creases he was too lazy to reach. Mostly bald on top, he had badly-cut hair that aspired through artifice to dark brownish-red, with eyes more or less the same color. (They were smoke-yellowed around the iris, settled in dark, unhealthy pouches. That was the 'less'.)

His clothing was rumpled, and his desktop cluttered with chattering phones, iPads and view screens. In short (which he was) Jake looked like a stout, bad-tempered news god, atop his very own cluttered Olympus.

"No," he said, before Cindy had done much more than walk in.

"But…" she protested, going for a look of earnest, injured surprise.

_"NO._ Now, get out and spare me the pain of another ulcer. Spare you… whatever the h3ll females get, when they're through robbing me blind in divorce court."

"That would be alimony," Cindy informed him, taking up an arms-folded stance halfway between the door and Jake's desk. Not for nothing had she worn her best 'take on the world' Chanel suit. "…Which you wouldn't have to pay out so often if you weren't always running off with waitresses, palmists and car-dealers, Jake."

"Very funny. And the answer's still NO."

"But you haven't even heard what I want," Cindy protested, dark eyes narrowed and grim.

Jake snorted rudely; jabbing at touch-screens and key-pads. With a few more hands and a flexible trunk, he'd have looked like Ganesh in a glass corner office.

"The same thing everyone else wants who's been in here, today," he growled. "A spot on the government's dumb-a$$ core mission. NO. Now, get out. Go cover the preparations for that trade conference in Switzerland."

"Holland," Cindy corrected automatically, adding, "Jake, you could send _anybody_ to that! H3ll, send Melinda. She loves all that corporate intrigue crap! Me, I specialize in the modern Four Horsemen: Famine, Pestilence, Disaster and War. Didn't I do a good job in Brazil?"

(_Good_? Her dramatic description of the microwave burst, fire and wealthy, escaped hostage… capped by International Rescue's sudden appearance… had made her a media powerhouse.)

"Yeah. Great stuff. I'm still wiping tears. Now, take off. You're too valuable to risk, etc. And don't ask for a raise. Won't happen."

Cindy took a very deep breath, preparing to unleash her mutual-assured-destruction big gun.

"Okay… that's fine, Jake. I'm a big girl and I can take no for an answer. Better yet, I can _walk_, and take my injured artistic integrity to Fox. Bet they'd find a way to get me a seat on the recovery mission... once they admit that this whole core problem isn't some kind of government conspiracy, that is."

Jake paused in his make-work to stare at her.

"You wouldn't do that," he said, being absolutely the first to blink.

"Watch me," Cindy shot back, looking like she was about to _cause_ news, instead of report it. "In a heartbeat, Jake; skipping like the flower girl at a d*mn funeral."

"Wedding," Jake corrected absently. "Not that there's much of a difference, in my case. But… you'd seriously walk out that door and into the land of cover-up hysteria, just to make a point?"

"You betcha, Favorite Former Boss of All Time. Jasmine over at Fox would have a field day with that one, wouldn't she? _And_ she keeps beating your golf score. That's gotta hurt."

Jake shook his head, causing his various unshaven jowls to wobble and shift.

"You're a bitch," he told her.

Cindy blew him a kiss. Then, bright-eyed and smiling, she asked,

"So… have I got the assignment?"

Glowering, Jake muttered,

"Pull up a chair and siddown, Taylor. No promises. Nothing's for certain when government security wonks are involved. They'll pick who they want… but the recent association with IR might give you some kind of an edge. Maybe the feds 'll think you can whistle up Thunderbird 1 like a big silver puppy."

Taylor smiled at him, looking like St. Cindy, Dispenser of Ratings.

"They will, if you drop the right hint," she purred, wondering how to get back in touch with her mysterious, helmeted friend. Then, Jake punched up the mission fact file, including pictures and dossiers for the two confirmed crewmembers. One was female; a brown-haired and mousy scientist. The other…

"Captain Paul Metcalfe," Jake read off, indicating a uniformed man in his early thirties with raven hair, bright blue eyes and an arrestingly handsome face. "Spectrum officer, with previous experience on Sea Base Alpha and the Moon Station."

He might have said more, but Cindy didn't hear it, because that was _him._ It had to be! Where else would you place an International Rescue operative but right in the midst of the action, ready on the inside, should something go wrong? Call it a gut feeling, but all at once, Cindy was certain she'd found her mystery man.

"Gotcha," she murmured, smiling at the picture.

XXX

_In the first class cabin of a converted military jet, halfway to Paris-_

TinTin Kyrano had an aisle seat, facing backward. Although she was supposedly flying first class… and had the credit card charges to prove it… an Air Force transport plane could not offer much in the way of pampering comfort. Or heat. Or noise-proofing.

On the other hand, it did provide the sort of experienced military pilots who could adjust with ease to a lapse in their global positioning data. In theory, she was flying Pan-Am; in practice, a modified Air Force Reserve C-15 transport jet. No matter. The other major carriers… Eastern, Braniff, Del Sol… had chosen much the same strategy.

Her in-flight meal wasn't much; a chicken sandwich, apple, bottled water and pink-frosted sugar cookie. But TinTin would scarcely have touched the repast had she been presented with Dom Perignon and Oysters Rockefeller.

Her attention was riveted, instead, to the small, brightly-wrapped box which rested upon her plastic tray-table. Gordon had thrust it at her, just before she'd boarded the plane in Papeete, Tahiti. Gordon, who'd been pale and wobbly, still, and not supposed to have risen from bed, even.

_"Don't open this until you're in France,"_ he'd told her, giving TinTin's cheek a quick kiss. She could still feel the swift, brushing gesture, warm on her flesh and a little bit scratchy. Indeed, her hand had wandered up to trace the spot many times.

Honestly, TinTin was terrified; not knowing quite what to hope for. She was only the pretty child of Jeff Tracy's cook, a man upright enough to scorn his dead brother's ill-gotten wealth. What right had she to hope for anything at all from one of Jeff's sons but a polite apology? An offer of _"Let's just be friends, and forget it ever happened"_?

Thus, TinTin prepared herself for the worst, at the same time recalling how the household (all but John and Brains) had come out to Tahiti to bid her farewell. Scott had given her a book in parting. The old-fashioned sort, with a cover and pages. _Chicken Soup for the College Soul_, it was called, though there were not any recipes contained in it.

John's parting gift… and she was certain that the source was he… was a cashier's check for fifty-thousand dollars drawn on a numbered account. _'Spending money. Have fun,' _read the enclosed note.

Virgil had provided the very newest model designer's scribble-pad; a thing which could reproduce any hue, mimic any texture, substance or brush style. Alan had given her sweets, and a racing form with the date changed and his own name penciled in as a pole-position driver. A promise, of sorts.

And Richard, dear Ricky, had given her many warm, sloppy kisses and a very tight hug. He had not understood why his beloved "Tin-im" was going away, nor how long she'd be absent. Surely not past bed-time? Not so long as to miss tucking-in and prayers? His confusion and promise to stay up waiting for her came near to breaking the girl's heart.

From her father had come a proud, loving lecture about expected behaviour and achievement. From Jeff and Lucinda Tracy, her tuition to one of the finest private universities in Europe. And that left only the box, still sitting unopened before her.

TinTin bit her lip and glanced round the noisy, vibrating cabin. There were not many other passengers, for few people cared to risk air travel in times as dangerous and trying as these.

A row of lights enlivened the cabin, along with much tied-back green cargo webbing and deck strap-down loops. Together with the twin row of rear-facing seats and blunt grey tail bulkhead, these were all her distraction. Behind her, she could hear the flight attendant making his way down the aisle, curtly demanding litter and bottles.

Bon. Simply put, no one was watching. No one would know or report what she did. Taking a deep, shaky breath, TinTin reached for the box, which was wrapped in leftover birthday paper. Ricky's, to judge from the bright yellow rockets and footballers. Her hands trembled as she tore away paper and tape, and then opened a white cardboard lid.

Inside, nestled in blue tissue paper, was a folded note. Beneath that… a lovely, delicate ring. Her breath caught as TinTin lifted the small thing from its nest.

A flashing diamond, perfect as a star, seemed to be caught in a cresting wave of ruddy gold. Gasping, she clutched the beautiful ornament in her right hand. With her left, TinTin quickly unfolded the note.

_'For you. It comes with a heart attached, and I'm hoping you'll want to keep both. _

_Gordon (T4)'_

Tears sprang to the girl's dark, almond eyes as she opened her hand once again to regard Gordon's present. At her side, the flight attendant said in a warm, smiling voice,

"Somebody loves you."

TinTin looked up at the slightly blurred man and smiled back, nodding shyly. Then, she slipped on the ring.

XXX

_Elsewhere, stirred to action by their dead master's latent commands-_

The unfolding of a criminal-terrorist cell was a slow, patient process, not to be rushed or mistimed. There were converts to be made, threats and bribes to be managed, in as secret and subtle a manner as possible.

True, the group leader could simply have exposed the Tracys or attacked them directly in court, but a family with that much money and political influence would simply find some way to sidestep assaults, or buy off the press.

No, far better to set up the chessboard with endgame firmly in mind. One crucial piece… one move… at a time. Thus, plans were made to sabotage a critical dike in Holland, in order to flood the upcoming World Trade Conference.

Longer range, still, the Tracy-Chase Testing Facility in New Mexico was due to be "ground-broken". A very humorous term, when one considered the Master's plan for that particular site.

Beyond these, cupped in the palm of their figurative hand, lay the core mission's irresistible lure. Opportunities to disrupt _that_ situation were legion; International Rescue's likely response entirely predictable.

Indeed, thanks to information gleaned by the Hood and implanted in three very trusted lieutenants, all that the sleepers need do was twitch a few strings… gently, patiently… to draw their victims into position for the crippling strike. Step One: behead the snake.

XXX

_In the depths of a many-layered temple, somewhere beyond and through Midworld-_

Awed, and yet a bit stubborn, Gawain dropped to one knee before the God of his former Order. The Deity had asked him: _-Why are you come?-_

A question he didn't quite understand. After all, had he not been summoned? Yet the stern, war-like being asked once more,

_-Why are you come to this place?-_

This time, rather slowly, the knight replied,

"Because I've made a perfect hash of things, and I'm not certain, quite, how t' sort it all properly. Seems again and again I've reacted without thinkin'… and I'm sorry f'r it."

At first, there was no response but a faint flickering of the vast blue light ray he knelt before. Then Gawain could feel something… reach into his mind, somehow. Everything, every moment since he'd flung down his sword and said 'no', was unwound like thread and considered; as though the Battle God of his Order wished to view matters through the lens of one tattered, recalcitrant paladin. At length, its study concluded, the being said,

_-There is Good and there is evil. There is Correct and there is incorrect. There is 1 and there is 0. Yet, another attempts to enter and control this locus. It has muddied the boundaries and sullied My handiwork. This must cease.-_

Sensing a way to redeem himself, Gawain gathered up courage. After all, he hadn't been slaughtered, yet. Surely, a hopeful sign.

"Milord… if I've th' right any longer t' speak of You so… If th' demon-lot that have squirmed into Faerie are th' source of this trouble, I should be glad f'r a second chance t' drive them forth."

In this place, any shift of the God's focus altered reality. When his former Deity looked on him, aspects of Gawain seemed to suffuse the entire structure. His stone effigies became towering columns, his cloak pin a repeating tile pattern. The whorls on his fingers and palms appeared on walls, floor and stairways, decking the altar, even. Down to the level of the four elements and humours which made him up, the knight was examined. Then,

_-You were a child when you swore to serve Me, Gawain… and a stubborn, willful child, still, when you refused My command and were thrust away from My presence. This time, if allowed to pledge yourself, you do so as a man, and there can be no resistance, or self will. I require obedience, a devotion to Law and to Good.-_

Almost, Gawain swore on the spot. Yet…

"Must I abandon my friends and squire, then? Surely… if they are doing good in their own way, then the end is th' same, is it not?"

The ray of blue light, extending from Nowhen to Otherwhere, flared briefly. That voice, made up all of his own heartbeat and blood rush, sounded again.

_-This mode of thinking is not dissimilar to that displayed by the invading intelligence. It, too, esteems 'flexibility'. It would use My creatures and those of the other Gods to affect its own realm. Yet, how can small wrongs and half-Goods together add up to Truth?-_

Hardly noticing that he'd done so, Gawain surged to his feet. He said, passionately,

"Milord, in the same way that one may use rubble an' burnt timbers t' shore up a rampart. Or th' way that a curse, laid upon pests, might lead t' bountiful harvests and a high-piled altar."

His thoughts froze into place at that instant. In some way that he could not understand, the notion was… was copied somehow to a glittering wall of force and bright motes. Only then, his notions forever inscribed, was the knight allowed to breathe and think again. Said the God,

_-These ideas will be input and run. Perhaps We will gain in this way a better understanding of the invader. It has placed the Goddess Midworld in peril, weakening Her by slaving Her fate to its own realm. Through your input, and link with the beings of that place, a way may be found to sever this bond.- _

Too confused, too full for immediate words, Gawain bowed deeply. Then, heart hammering in his chest,

"Th' Lady Anelle… how fares she, if I may ask?"

_-She whom you cleave to is bound, yet happy enough with her lot and her master.-_

Once, while hunting, Lord Morcar had been gored in the thigh by a savage wild boar. Half of his life blood had spurted from his body before Gawain could drive off that mountain of squealing, dog-draped muscle and then turn his attention to the injured nobleman.

Now the knight had received a similar wound; deep inside, where it could not be bandaged or salved. Somehow, he didn't fall over. Somehow else, he agreed to obey his Deity's bidding and found himself clothed once more in the armor and trappings of a Cross Knight. Blazing sword, holy symbol, and all. The House, Bridge and Altar faded around him like mist, but Gawain scarcely noticed.


	41. 41: Family Hour

Bit long. Thanks, Tikatu, Sam, Bee and Mitzy, for reading and reviewing chapter 40. Your viewpoints and comments matter.

**41: Family Hour**

_Early evening, Tracy Island-_

Alan bounced… only word to describe the motion… _bounced_ exuberantly into the office. John was on duty at the time, although he hardly looked it. He was dressed in jeans and a black tee-shirt, had his feet propped up on the desk, with ankles crossed and a laptop balanced on his stomach. The room's view screen was muttering away at half volume, meanwhile, and another whole wall had been blanked for calculations and research.

John's ice-pale hair was getting rather long, again, but most of that would come off when he went back to the Cape. Mission coming up, if all went well and the core didn't fail.

Alan's mood had improved once TinTin left for Europe. He and Gordon could relax and be hundred-percent friends again, see, there being fewer chick issues. Not that Alan allowed himself to think this one out all the way. Too upsetting.

"Rejoice, Bro! Your relief has arrived!"

John glanced over without doing much actual… y'know… _rejoicing._

"Hey, Alan," his brother responded, minimizing a few windows by moving his hand through a glittering patch of charged air. "Nothing much to report. Zora's blown herself out, but the Indian Ocean's about to cough up another wind-ball. I think they plan to name this one Ariel."

"What about the diamond-mine guy?" Alan inquired, thumping himself onto a desk-side armchair. "What's he up to, lately?"

The day had become green and waver-y, as fleeing rags of tropical storm Zora stippled the sky and drank up its light. But John had spent too much time in space to complain about natural illumination, no matter how eerie it looked. Pleased to be off the topic of weather, the astronaut used a short, midair hand gesture to open another window. (And how he'd programmed each 3D spot in that field to carry an address and data, much less recalled where they all were, Alan had no earthly clue.)

A map of South Africa appeared on the wall, with a meandering line marked out in red, leading from Johannesburg to some kind of Transvaal rest station. The guy's itinerary had done a lot of zigzagging, and then ended abruptly in a blinking and frustrated dot.

"He could be better," John admitted, smiling a little. "I retroactively altered his digital paperwork after having the hardcopy shredded by local operatives. On top of all that, the engine knock he picked up at a gas station in Durban has just turned into total system failure. He's going to be sitting around until a new excursion vehicle can be fitted out and delivered, and that's going to take… at a conservative estimate… three months."

"You are the man," Alan vowed, feeling kinda sorry for poor, deluded Van Harker, or whatever his name was.

Dude probably would never realize that the cyclone of diplomatic and mechanical problems he'd run into had been brewed up right here on Tracy Island, by one scary and motivated hacker.

But John merely shrugged, pinching the weirdo-tracking screen shut with another swift gesture.

"Sometimes," he said, "behind-the-scenes stuff can keep little problems from growing up into genuine monsters. Most people don't get that, though. They want to see us come sliding down a cable like rescue commandoes, with bandolier med-kits and sirens."

Alan grinned, unconsciously squaring his shoulders at the mental image John's words had created.

"Got to admit," he replied, "That sounds kinda fun… which brings me to the _other_ reason I'm here, besides relieving you. Don't put all your stuff away, John. I've got kind of a favor to ask."

See, the thing about John was, you couldn't really tell what was going through his mind. At the moment, he just looked very still and real focused.

"Go on," said the astronaut.

So Alan rushed into his spiel, crossing mental fingers that his older brother was in a good mood this evening.

"Well, okay… You remember awhile back, out on the pool deck, when you told me to use vehicle and lubricant research as a way to hook dad into backing my racing career?"

"I remember." Still two words, flatly spoken. Sometimes, John could be very like Dad.

"Right… So, uh… I've been dropping hints, y'know? Sowing seeds about how TA could sure use a new, untapped market, just like you said. But he's not biting, not even a little. So… just listen, okay? I need a sponsor. I need a shadow corporation with plenty of money to back me up and plaster their stickers all over my car. Want to see her? Blew a quarter of my trust fund, almost, but I'm gonna win it all back, John, and then some."

Bracing himself, Alan leaned forward in that expensive leather armchair. His tone became deliberately more business-like. Slower.

"Have a little faith _now_, in the early part, John, and I guarantee you a two-hundred percent return on your investment. I'll win races and pay you back double, because you helped me get rolling."

So saying, Alan dug a folded paper out of his right trouser pocket and then pushed it across the teak desk toward John. His brother set aside a sleek titanium laptop and picked up Alan's paper.

Unfolded, it revealed the downloaded and printed image of a bright red stock car. Ford 500; nice lines, very muscular, all engine. Finish needed work, where a lot of previous decals had been scraped away. Alan looked like he'd given birth to the thing, though; glowing with a new mother's fond, worried pride.

"She's fast," he boasted. "250 mph on the straightaway, according to the last driver, and I can soup her up even more. Got a few ideas. Just… I need a sponsor and crew, is all."

Well… he'd loved a car himself, once. Built it up from abandoned junk heap to noisy black, road-chewing monster. A 69 Dodge Charger; the one he'd got his first kiss in. Still had the car, though the girl was long gone.

"Shadow corporation, huh?" John mused, refolding and handing back the picture. "I've got a number of ready-mades, for quiet cash handling, but the only one remotely connected to NASCAR would be Western Kinematics. They write code for engine-diagnostic and guidance equipment. Well… _I _do, actually. Don't know what the h3ll I'd put on a decal, though."

Alan's grin seemed almost to exceed the bounds of his actual face.

"Leave that to me," he exulted, bounding out of the chair to shake John's hand. "I'll put Virge on the job in, like, thirty seconds. You watch. He'll come up with a design that'll knock people's eyeballs right out of their sockets."

"Not really a selling point," John muttered, already hitting the internet. "How about it just gives them a headache?"

If he could have, Alan would have hugged his skinny blond brother. But John didn't like that sort of thing. He'd always expressed affection with fountains of money and helpful ideas, not physical contact. But… screw it. Not this time. Alan lunged over to give John a really quick side-arm type guy hug.

"You won't regret it," he promised. "For real, Bro, you're gonna have trophies coming out of your butt."

"No thanks. I'll, uh… pass on that particular symptom," his brother remarked dryly, pulling free of Alan's embrace. "In the meantime, the desk is all yours. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Including, for the moment, tell Dad.

XXX

_Elsewhere in Jeff Tracy's opulent tropical mansion-_

Gordon padded through several rooms, searching for one of his many brothers while carrying another. He'd promised TinTin that he'd keep a close eye on young Ricky, and that meant hefting the little dribbler around on his shoulders pretty much full time. Seriously.

For one thing, skill with kids always impressed the ladies. For another, Ricky weighed enough to be good exercise, which a recovering Gordon very much needed. Also… hey… the kid was important to TinTin, besides being Mom's adopted "sunset baby", and what mattered to those two, mattered to him. Thus, he'd acquired a partner.

Virgil turned up in the sun room. He was seated at one of Kyrano's gardening tables, clicking through photographs on his data-pad for the best scene to paint in the background of a new portrait. It was going to be a very large work, almost mural-sized, with each family member painted in a different, personality-capturing style.

"Rick," Gordon panted, as he jog-trotted through the door, "My hair isn't a set of reins. You can't steer me by pulling it."

Nor could he make Gordon move faster by thumping his sandaled heels against his big brother's chest, but that didn't stop him from trying.

"Giddy up, Horsey! Go! Go, Horsey! _Faster!"_

Children… gotta love 'em (because the females did, and you wouldn't get anywhere, otherwise).

"Sorry, Mate… Buddy, I mean… end of the line. Horsey just died of exhaustion."

Virgil looked over, smiling broadly, as Gordon swung their scrap of a dark-haired brother round and round a few times, and then set him down on the tiled floor to wobble about. Sheer dizziness would keep the kid out of mischief for at least thirty seconds. Right?

_"Burge!"_ Ricky shouted, flinging both arms out and staggering drunkenly. "Burge, I'm 'pinning!"

"I gotcha, Short-Stuff," Virgil laughed, rising from his seat to collect the spin-addled toddler. "And remember: Just say no to rotation."

"Huh?" Ricky's wide dark eyes contained a mix of hero-worship and earnest puzzlement. "What you say, Burge? Gowon spinnded me, an' I can't hear you no more!"

_"Any_ more, Short-Stuff. You'll get over it. Just lay off the joyrides and fermented apple juice."

Then, flipping Ricky around, he slung the boy over one arm like a raincoat and turned to face Gordon.

"What's going on, Kiddo? Feeling any better?"

"Yeah, I guess…" his red-haired brother allowed, dropping into a handy loveseat. The sun room was more of a greenish twilight-room at the moment, but still quite airy and pleasant. Nice place to talk, or to paint. "…Little by little. Wish I could do more real exercise, but John's evil doctor friend won't let me. You'd think she was being paid to keep me in bed, or something."

Virgil grinned at him.

"Better you than me, Pal… and God help John, if he's getting serious about her. There's no-nonsense and there's astronaut flight surgeon. Somewhere past that, there's Linda D-mn Bennett."

Then, resuming his seat at Kyrano's gardening table, Virgil released their wild youngest brother.

"What can I do you for, besides baby-sit, that is?"

Gordon puffed his cheeks out and then gave vent to a particularly vexed-sounding sigh. Always a sign of concern or frustration.

"Right. There's this… I dunno… picture in my mind, like a weird pile of sticks and spaghetti. I was wondering if I could borrow your art pad and use it to try drawing the d-mn thing. Get it out of my head and on screen."

Gordon had a computer of his own. They all did, but as his skill with drawing extended no farther than stick-figures, he had no paint apps or design pad to use.

"Burge! Gowon! Wanna go outside!"

"Too windy, Rick," they both answered at once. This, of course, simply brought on a spate of louder and firmer demands. Ricky was nothing if not persistent; generally, at the top of his lungs.

Virgil handed Gordon an electronic art pad.

"Stylus is clipped to the back," he said, rising once more to intercept Ricky's dash for the wide French doors. "You might have to charge it. Just… _Ha! _Gotcha, Short-Stuff! There's no escape from the terrible Burge-monster! You shall pay!"

Their little brother began shrieking with laughter, convulsed by Virgil's tossing, tickling and pretended belly-bites. Far more than Gordon, Virge was a natural child-minder.

The swimmer had other concerns at the moment. Unclipping the art pad's stylus, he next located and pressed the power button (a small, blue plastic oval). It flashed to life with a bright chime, displaying a blank, ready "canvas". So far, so good.

Tool bar on the side had all sorts of paint and ink settings… charcoal, even… but Gordon stuck with good old black pen. Then, kind of slowly, thinking way inward, he started to draw.

There were dots to place… just so… and a series of very important lines. Next came things that only felt right if they were drawn in bright blue, and which… well, they were supposed to stick out of the screen, he thought. After that came a lot of strangely proportioned curves, their relationship to the lines and dots quite critical. These would end up sideways and… and _over,_ in a direction he could feel, but not really describe. A direction in which, if something were rotated, it would turn inside out.

Gordon kept drawing. At one point, Kyrano entered the room with a tray of coffee and light, pre-supper snack foods, but Gordon took nothing. For some reason, he felt like it wouldn't be right to stop. Not for any reason.

The sun had set by the time he was through transcribing the image in his head. Done at last! Didn't look very tidy or sensible, though, whatever it was. Then Virgil wandered over to have a look, with a sleepy Rick riding in the crook of his muscular arm.

"Wow," he said. "That's, uh… really something, Gordon. Looks like about five-hundred blueprints stacked on top of each other. Want me to hit the 3-D button for you?"

Looking up, suddenly, Gordon gave his older brother a quick nod.

"If you don't mind," he said, being _way_ politer than usual. "I'd really appreciate it. Maybe, if I can see this thing some other way, I'll figure out why it's stuck in my head."

Virgil manipulated the art pad's tool bar like a pro, and all at once, the structure on screen leapt out to become a rotating blue-and-white hologram. Still didn't make much sense, though, because it kept changing shape as it turned, exposing what looked like new chambers and floors.

"Okay… that's pretty weird," Virgil told Gordon, while guiding Ricky's drooping small head to a safe resting place on his own broad shoulder.

"Yeah. That, it is. Maybe John could figure it out? He likes this sort of extra-D puzzle crap."

"Maybe. Or else Brains could take a whack at it. He's into multiple dimension stuff, too. Question is… considering that _your_ idea of added dimensions means scent and touch at the movies… Why are you imagining this weird-a$$ thing in the first place?"

Gordon shrugged helplessly, looking wearied and pale.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But it's really important, Virgil. It means something."

Virgil ran a hand through his wavy brown hair; eyes never leaving that floating, sparkling and shape-changing hologram.

"That's for sure. I mean, the last time I saw you draw a house, it looked like a box with a triangle on top. It didn't even have any windows!"

"Overrated," Gordon told him, getting to his feet with the art pad balanced like a food tray; as though he feared that the hologram was going to slide off and shatter all over the sun room's terracotta tiled floor.

"Windows are a structural weakness and possible point of attack. Best if they're kept to a minimum."

Then,

_"Boys,"_ called their mother's voice, over the nearest wall comm, _"Dinner. Come and get it or you'll regret it, as your grandma would say."_

"Coming, Mom," Virgil called back, knowing that the comm would pick up and transmit his answer; just as it would for Scott, John and Alan, wherever they were. "We'll be right there."

_"I appreciate it, Sweetie. Cabbage rolls are best eaten hot; and your father's already at the table."_

Muttering something about inside information, Virgil started for the sun room's interior door; the one that led to a hallway and family room. On the way, casting a nervous look at Gordon, Virgil cleared his throat and said,

"Hey, um… got a question for you, Kiddo. Just between you and me."

Still balancing that odd-building art pad, Gordon nodded at his much taller brother.

"Fire away," he said. "I'm listening."

So Virgil took a deep breath and plunged in, rather like Alan had.

"Do you think…? I mean… there was a lot of detailed information in that notebook I stole from the guard in Brazil. Do you think it all came from _me_? That I told the Hood all about IR and our family? That I caved under pressure, maybe?"

Gordon stopped walking, surprised.

"No. _H3ll,_ no, Virgil. Listen, half of that stuff… the bits about John, f'r instance… Well, _do _you know who he chats with, online? And all of his screen names?"

Virgil cocked his head, considering. After a moment, he said,

"No, I don't. Not consciously, anyhow. But what if I heard it sometime and then filed the information away deep down? Maybe I cracked when the Hood…"

"Maybe nothing," Gordon insisted. "Do you actually know that much about Thunderbird 4's high-pressure cruising velocity? I mean t' say, down to which panels are likely to burst under strain, and in what precise order?"

"I… shhh… Sorry, Short-Stuff. Didn't mean to wake you. Mom's got dinner ready, though, so you might want to consider perking up."

He patted Ricky's small back as he spoke, looking at Gordon with feeble, but growing relief.

"So… most of those details must have come from somewhere else, you think?" Virgil suggested hesitantly, as if Gordon's opinion on the matter were life-or-death vital.

The swimmer nodded earnestly, shoving at his brother's kid-free right shoulder.

"Exactly. You never caved, Virgil, and none of this was your fault."

Maybe, in another place and time, their positions had been reversed. Maybe Virgil had been the one to reassure a troubled and unhappy brother. And maybe then, as now, the words had helped a great deal. At any rate, the three brothers proceeded to wash up and go in to dinner; backs covered and hearts somewhat eased.

XXX

_Midworld, on a chill, barren ridge-_

Britte was infuriated. Helpless, too… for perhaps twenty heartbeats. Then, faced with a waist-high barrier of leaping blue flame, the squire turned to her stamping and quivering centaur friend.

"Chester," she asked the shaggy bay colt, placing an urgent hand on his arm, "Could you surmount yon flame wall, bearing a rider?"

The centaur's nostrils flared even wider in that elfin, oddly-made face. Raking the ground with a chipped fore hoof, he said,

"I jump, Britt… Jump high. Get on."

He was not very heavy, after all, and neither was she, for all her strong back and work-hardened limbs.

Chester pivoted his human-like torso and bent to the mounting side, linking his hands to make her a sort of stirrup. Britte took hold of his tangled brown mane, lifted one foot and set it firmly into the cradle he'd formed. Then, with a swift flexion of human and horse muscles, Chester all but threw the girl onto his back.

Hundreds of ice-sprites hissed and jeered, swirling about them like glittering cyclones. Nearby, meanwhile, Blanchard had begun to rumble and stamp.

_"_No," she ordered the warhorse. "You are to _stay, _Sirrah, even as your master commanded. Not a twitch, beyond what is needed to shoo away flies!"

To back up her order, Britte caught Blanchard's large, dark eye and sketched a barnyard command sigil. Worked very well on sheep and kine, but a destrier was another matter, not so?

But Blanchard did not at first move, and that gave the girl confidence to proceed. Crouching small as she could upon Chester's bare back, the squire swallowed hard and said,

"Go, Chet. Up and over, lad!"

The centaur snorted. Then he began backing as far as Sir Gawain's circle of flame would allow. Like a curtain of searing blue light, the ward circle blocked their path. Britte refused to see anything else but success, though. She was a squire, and her place was with Gawain.

Her breathing sped and roughened as Britte felt Chester's haunch muscles bunch and grow taut. Then, all of a sudden, he exploded forward, hooves beating thunder from icy-cold stone. The centaur sprang up and over at the last moment, somehow just clearing that fiery wall.

Britte did not… _would not_… shut her brown eyes. Gawain faced everything squarely, and so would his squire. Her stomach lurched violently on the way up, hung free for an instant, and then tumbled downward; rushing to meet the rocky surface.

They landed with a stone-scattering jar, Chester stumbling a little, his tail hairs glimmering azure. All the breath was driven from Britte's lungs as they thumped, skidded and righted themselves upon the other side. Safe, for the moment.

Blanchard had not been cowed, however. Nor cow-spelled. Anxious to follow, he reared up to paw at the icy, sprite-laden wind.

"Blanchard, _no!_" Britte screamed, as the massive white warhorse backed for a leap. "You're too heavy!"

Yet, onward he came, though no leaper at all; and halfway he made it, landing in the midst of snapping and hissing blue flame. Britte hurled herself from Chester's back, meaning to do something desperate. Save the destrier? Haul him bodily out of that fiery wall? Indeed, or perish trying.

Except that the horse neither faltered nor burnt. Flames ran all across him like rainwater, raising the steed's mane and tail, tipping each hair with a pale, dancing spark. He shook himself, clearly startled by all of this serpentine light. Not only was the beast not roasted, but he actually seemed better. Less climb-worn and weary, somehow.

Britte ran to him. Taking the destrier's bridle, she drew him forward, away from that bluish inferno. A spark or two touched her own flesh in the process, leaving naught behind but tingling warmth and well-being. Just like the night of those giant stone heads…

"Oh!" the girl snapped, kicking at innocent rocks. "He tricked us, knowing we'd not try to simply pass through! Had us cowering like babes and colts behind nothing but light!"

Gawain would never have truly risked hurting them, Britte understood; and that was a strange, warming thought. Less pleasant was the knowledge that he'd gone off alone to face danger, unarmed and weary.

Britte pivoted, slipping a bit on the cliff-top's slick, frozen surface. He'd not be alone for much longer, she vowed to herself, peering about the landscape with flame-addled eyes.

Chester had sharper senses than his human companion. He, it was, who spotted the knight.

"Holy fire!" Britte gasped, repeating an oath she'd heard Gawain snap out, once or twice. Perhaps half a mile distant, he appeared to have been rent into many laboring shreds; pieces turned in every conceivable direction, some working backward, or high in the air, some of them sunk through the ground. Here a hand, there a leg, or part of his head.

And somehow, these scattered, shifting portions were not just alive, but working to build a structure which altered and flared as it rose, fairly seething with power. The diagram… it was taking shape and substance before her eyes, perhaps by tearing up Gawain. Consuming him.

Almost, she screamed, except that he'd told her not to distract him. And what if by doing so, she caused those bits to fall apart, forever and all?

"Sir…" she whispered, taking hold of her wood-handled mace. Chester copied the gesture, trusting that Britte would know what to do; would tell him just how to save Da.

They'd have slunk forward, for certain, had a sudden apparition not halted them flat. The dark elf, it was, vaulting deftly onto the cliff-top. Evidently, that switch-backed trail had presented him with no greater trouble than a broad village street.

On the other hand, _something_ had met and challenged him, because the pale-haired elf now sported a long, vicious slash along his left cheekbone; not more than a day or two old.

Involuntarily, Britte's hands flew to her own face, then outward. She'd have helped him, if she could, though the elf seemed not to feel any pain. Somewhat weather-stained, he was, but fairly glowing. Attractive in a way that made poor Britte wish to curl up and hide herself.

Blanchard harbored no such confusion. Whickering softly, he pulled free of her grasp to trot forward, ears pricked with interest. Got a conjured apple for his trouble, along with a vigorous rub.

Britte came forward next, out of necessity. The elf had magick, and could perhaps spell the busy shards of her friend and knight back together.

"Sir Elf…" she began, squaring her shoulders.

Turning, he looked away from Blanchard's snow-shadow side and electrum-pale mane to correct her.

"Not sir," he said to the girl, shooing ice and hail sprites away with a gesture. "That term isn't used where I'm from. Males haven't got that much status."

"Oh… then, what shall I call you, if not Sir?"

He shrugged.

"Drehn is one of my names. The least offensive, when translated to Common. The others would sound like threats or boasting."

He spoke easily, whilst currying Blanchard with a handful of conjured brush. Spoke as though the fresh scar did not hurt him.

"Shall I fetch water, or a cloth for your face, Drehn? It… surely, you will want to clean that, and then my lord Gawain can heal it, if you'll but help me to…"

The elf traced a hand along the raw knife-slash.

"This?" he asked, smiling obscurely.

Britte nodded, biting her lower lip till it flushed scarlet. Very clearly and painfully, she recalled what it felt like to be horribly mutilated by taunting men who had no further use for her. The recollection was harrowing, survivable only because she'd been mended, inside and out.

Said Drehn, of his own livid cut,

"It will heal. I encountered a female of my kind in the eastern hills. Got along wonderfully, until she tried to lock me in mate's irons. But I won't be dragged back to the caverns as anyone's husband. Not even _hers_. She can seek elsewhere for a happy ever afterlife. Mortal females are just as accommodating, without all the armour and weaponry. Present company excepted, of course, Milady."

And then he executed a swift, graceful bow, maybe mocking her. Possibly not. It was just about that time that Drehn noticed Gawain's absence.

"Where is the knight?" he asked, looking around at steeds, girl and flame wall. "By the signs, I can see that he's been here."

Uncertain what else to do, Britte pointed the half-mile to Gawain's scattered location. Drehn looked, and then looked again. An air-scorching curse escaped him, and not just because the knight had been torn up and flung like chaff.

"Tell me," he snarled, "that our idiot friend has not pulled a god into this mess!"

What the elf would have done next was anyone's guess. Perhaps Britte would have fought him. But then, for a wonder, the half-orcs and scholar arrived, with their shape-changer riding the winds overhead.

_"Keep watch,"_ Gawain had told her, _"and prevent interference."_

Only, he'd not told her how.


	42. 42: Blood Ties

Late... or early... lost track of quite which, but will edit as soon as the world is through spinning. Whew! Edited... nothing like a little sleep.

**42: Blood Ties**

Chaos spreads in odd leaps and ripples. Here, a staged traffic accident. There, a person fully suborned, whispering tales of this or that individual; the one who could be got for a bribe, the other threatened to impressive and lasting effect. In this manner, a network was woven, linking the victims' old classmates and enemies, colleagues and loves.

But sooner or later, this patiently creeping amoeba would encounter something it couldn't absorb or digest. A stubborn fighter pilot, say, or a young British counter-intelligence agent. Perhaps the one, having told what she'd seen in debriefing, later regretted the action and refused to be drawn any deeper, while the other (surrounded by the Hood's already fed-upon puppets) was too fierce and haughty to yield.

What could the network do with such women as these, except use them as bait for a trap?

XXX

Cindy claimed that her sterling journalistic credentials and gritty determination had won her a spot on the core mission. Others hinted at blackmail and string-pulling. Whatever, she'd made it. She was confirmed, and had only to report to the WorldGov headquarters building in New York City for her primary briefing and introductions.

The job itself would be simple, from her standpoint: record data, maintain communications and… chiefly… _survive._ The mission's nominal head, responsible for upholding the scientific end of things, would be Myrna Sanderson, a woman about as invested in gritty reality as a cloistered Dominican Sister. Half the words she used, the reporter had never heard before and did not understand. With her rumpled clothing and over-stuffed brain, the woman all but screamed: scientist.

Actually running things would be Captain Paul Metcalfe; a Spectrum officer whom Cindy suspected was also involved with International Rescue. There was more.

On some level, she felt a connection to the stunningly handsome captain. Not just physically. Looking at his picture, in the little suite she'd been allotted for rest between training and brainstorming sessions, Cindy was _certain_ she knew the guy; and that they were somehow fated to meet. Metcalfe didn't seem to feel it, though, shrinking from Cindy's attempts at banter and teasing like she was holding a flickering Taser.

One Saturday morning, six days before the actual launch, the three participants sat with a group of WSA and WorldGov officials, viewing data gathered from satellites, geological stations and scientists.

"…A Dr. Hackenbacker (last affiliated with Princeton University, before taking a position in the corporate sector) has provided this updated core scan. He's been pretty cagey about the technology used," said the speaker, a short, frowning man with a face as creased and rumpled as his bottle green, off-the-rack suit. His cuffs were frayed and his tie didn't match, but few of the audience cared.

"One would assume," he continued, gesturing vaguely, "that the source is a Tracy Aerospace industrial secret. At any rate, as you can see from the hologram, their results are spectacular."

And, indeed, the Earth hung peeled like an apple over the gunmetal conference table, revealing her secrets like a hovering fan-dancer.

"What's clear is that the core's rotation has slowed, leading to a near total shut-down of Earth's internal electromagnetic dynamo."

The speaker's wrinkles redistributed themselves into deeper, less confident folds. Turning to Myrna, he said,

"Dr. Sanderson… according to this core scan, there are several massive magma plumes in a position to be accessed by human ingenuity. The nearest, from a strictly geographical standpoint, lies beneath Yellow Stone National Park, in Wyoming."

He gestured, again. Obediently, the peeled globe spun clockwise, presenting Taylor, Metcalfe and Sanderson with an image of fiery, upwelling snake tongues, licking the inside of Earth's fragile crust. Their source was a moribund core, its surface stamped with deep reverse-continents.

Cindy folded both hands in her lap and just stared, for once having nothing to say. _That_ was what Sanderson proposed going after? Those writhing and nuke-brilliant dragons? Said Captain Metcalfe, leaning forward with his elbows on the table and hands loosely clasped,

"You said that the Yellow Stone plume is closest in terms of Earth-crossing distance, Mr. Grant… but what about actual dig-time? What are we talking, depth-wise? Five miles? Ten?"

"Twelve-and-a-quarter miles, roughly," Grant replied, coughing a little. "If the drilling machine works properly, it will take your team nearly a month on recycled water and air to burrow your way down that far. Wyoming is quite mountainous, Captain. The crust there is particularly thick."

"Understood," said Metcalfe, frowning slightly. His blue eyes deepened to near violet, when they narrowed like that. "Next option?"

"There are the Rift Valley in Africa and Mid-Ocean Ridges to consider," Dr. Sanderson put in, rising from her seat to take Grant's place by the slow-whirling hologram. He didn't look happy about it, either.

"At the Great Rift Valley, the Earth's crust is pulling itself apart," Sanderson continued. "It's a wound in the lithosphere that we can access, much the way pathogens enter a cut, using…"

"Untested materials and hijacked technology," Cindy interrupted, speaking at last. It was her precious a$$ on the line, after all, and she didn't fancy having it handed back to her on the end of a sizzling barbecue fork. "Am I right, or is your drill-monster, there, an outsized TA lunar mining machine? Because that's what it looks like to me, with some tacked-on neutronium cutting surfaces, and a stupidly dangerous radioactive cargo."

Myrna Sanderson blinked. Reporters and press conferences annoyed her tremendously. She understood the _reason_ for Taylor's inclusion… but she didn't have to enjoy it.

"The radioactive slugs are not cargo, Ms. Taylor. _You_ are cargo. Those isotope slugs are present to ensure that we sink as deeply and swiftly as possible, through the crust. And, no… the "Drill-Monster" hasn't been field tested, except in the mines of Mars and the old Lunar Station. Until the core began faltering, what need did anyone have to dig so far?"

"Exactly my point. Thank you," claimed Cindy, as though she'd actually won something. "That's why… If you'll clear the mist from your ivory towers for a second, folks… You'll see that we need to bring in a Tracy Aerospace equipment consultant. Someone who knows how the h3ll that thing is supposed to work. Otherwise, yeah… we're going to fry down there."

She'd gotten suspended from private school, once, for flushing cherry bombs down the teachers lounge toilets. Male and female, _both._ The effects of her statement, now, were somewhat similar, and equally warming to Cindy's brash soul. Some people never grew up.

XXX

_Tracy Island, at dinner-_

One at a time or in pairs and threes, the family assembled to eat; gathering about a long table of polished mahogany, with a grand chandelier pulled down low. There were lights on the sideboards and sconces, as well, but nothing too jarringly bright.

Candle flame bounced from swaying prisms and burnished silver; from the rich, warm surface of newly-poured wine and from Lucy's quivering, diamond-drop earrings. Bounced and refracted, filling the air like quiet conversation or the scent of good food.

Jeff sat at the head of the table, with Lucinda at his right hand and Scott at his left. John took his place beside Scott, while Ricky, in a colorful high-chair and drop-cloth, was close by their fond, smiling mother. Next to John was Virgil, and then Brains beyond him, completing the table's left side.

Alan and Gordon had been placed well away; beyond a silver-and-crystal salt cellar, opposite Virgil and Brains. (Possible only because Kyrano was taking a break from service to mind the desk.)

In England, a diner would speak first with the partner located at one hand, then switch to the other when the next course was served. Here, you talked with whomever you wanted, short of screaming to somebody three heads down and diagonally placed. Or, like John, read the book in your lap.

"John, sweetie, put it away," their mother commanded, handing round a big dish of fragrant, tomato-y cabbage rolls. "If you're underweight, the WSA flight surgeons won't let you pilot a mission."

An effective threat.

"Yes, Ma'am," John sighed, closing his book. This left him with Scott (talking to dad about the Netherlands trip), Virgil (mouthing something at Gordon) and salad. He didn't like salad.

Fortunately, mom was distracted by Ricky, whose opinion of greens, dressing and hard-boiled eggs matched John's, but whose enthusiasm for expressing this view was considerably wilder.

"Ricky, sweetheart, we use a knife and fork. No, dear, we don't throw our eggs… Jeff, _duck!"_

Actually, he moved sideways, allowing the hard-boiled missile to fly right on past him. Kept talking, too, which was pretty impressive. John couldn't throw his own salad, but he could eat a few bites and then push the rest all over his plate to disguise how much was still present.

Times like these, he missed having a dog. Rusty had had an enormous appetite, and she'd often been John's mealtime life-saver. But there were no expectant, tail-thumping Irish Setters under _this_ table.

"John," Virgil whispered, derailing the astronaut's train of thought. "Gordon drew something he'd like you to have a look at. Says he's not sure what it is, but it's pretty important. Show Brains, too, if you want."

The cabbage rolls arrived just about then, and those he could eat… once the filling and leaves had been properly separated. Again, thank God for Ricky, because his mother was too busy shoveling food into one squirming, protesting son to notice the quieter others. Under cover, he got to work repairing his meal.

Rice at his twelve o'clock plate position, meat mixture at three o'clock, mushrooms forever entombed with the bread crumbs at six o'clock, and limp, unrolled cabbage at nine. Spinach pasta mounded up in the center. John was all set to try a few bites, when Virgil handed him an art pad, and took it off sleep mode.

Something sprang off the screen and began to rotate in midair before him. Seeming to twist inside out, the image presented a constantly-altering surface. A building, he decided; meant to be constructed in more than the usual number of dimensions.

Hackenbacker craned his neck for a better view, leaning out across the table and past Virgil, who scooted his chair backward over the carpeted floor. The engineer seemed honestly fascinated, but John…

Something about that tall, warping diagram made his skin prickle and his gut-muscles clench.

"What the h3ll is _this?"_ he demanded, forgetting the presence of Lucy. But he wasn't speaking to Virgil, Brains or Gordon. Not really.

Like waking up in space from dreams of home, his mind was torn free of normal reality. As though seeing that diagram had pulled off a comfortable mask, John all at once found himself elsewhere, facing a soft-whirling mist of pale motes. Below and to one side were the flat, opened-out forms of his family, still in their cramped, box-like dining room. From his current location, they seemed as rigidly frozen as lines drawn on paper.

To Five (for, of course, it was she) John said,

"What's that thing here for, and where did it come from?"

He had real, gripping reason for concern. In Spartanburg… on Mars… at far-distant wheres and manifold whens… such structures had been present. And always, they'd brought hideous trouble.

'_John Tracy will advise,'_ said his friend and creation and sometime love. _'The actions of this entity have engendered response from a parallel realm.'_

"What kind of response?" John demanded, his voice swirling weirdly through tube-like coils of spacetime. The air was denser and grainier, here, gravity much less pronounced. Not that he had time to admire all this.

_'There exists a calculated probability of 56.25172 percent that the Genius Loci of a parallel realm will attack the entity Five, using autonomous subroutines.'_

"Why?" John prodded further. "I have a hard time believing that an extra-dimensional being just woke up on the wrong side of the hypercube. What happened, Five?"

It mattered, because he very much needed this time… this worldline… to succeed. Almost everything he wanted was here, with more on the way. Said his quantum computer, taking on humanoid form,

_'Damage done to Earth's core after an alien incursion is irreversible from this locus. Damage may be reduced by linking events at this locus to events at another.'_

Like moving your hands through an electromagnetic field, causing a set of enormous mechanical claspers to jiggle and twitch on far-away Titan. All at once, John had a rampaging headache.

"Okay… let me see if I've got this straight," he said, pressing a hand with too many angles and surfaces both outside and inside his forehead. "You've linked this world, or locus, to another… and you're manipulating events over _there,_ hoping for magnified echoes here. Am I right?"

The semi-humanoid Five (really, a snaking cascade of her) rippled with sudden, wild color. _Yes, _in a word.

"Uh-huh. Managed to upset the locals pretty badly, I take it?"

Another shower of ripples, somewhat bluer, this time. He ought to have been angry, but it was very difficult for John to get and stay mad at Five.

"Well… they have a right to self-determination, Five. Only, you've just made our problems, theirs. Is it possible to sever the link between worlds?"

_'Affirmative. Doing so will hasten the end of this locus, and further destabilize the other. Solution, John Tracy?'_

"42," he replied, adding hastily, "That was a joke. Humor," when she seemed about to input the statement.

_'Humorous numeral not input or run, John Tracy. Five awaits the response of her Creator and First User.'_

Right. No pressure… After a long moment, he said,

"Suppose it works both ways. Suppose your other-world opposite number can move the pieces around its board, and affect things here. Or… what are the chances that it could detect this conversation?

_'If it is the intent of John Tracy to be heard, one-hundred percent. If it is the intent of John Tracy to remain undetected, probability drops to 76.4315 percent.'_

"For the record, I intend to be heard. This link between worlds is accidental. It can't be undone, but both sides can agree to a…"

XXX

_Midworld-_

"…Truce," finished Drehn, apropos of nothing whatever. The cold was beginning to get to him, the elf decided, though his folk rarely noticed mere changes in weather.

The others turned round to look at him; two lumbering orcs, a halfling, a human female, centaur and fluttering shape-changer.

"Beg pardon, Friend Elf?" said the scholar, bowing a bit at his comfortable waistline. "What sort of truce, and with whom?"

"With the other side, whatever that means."

"Faerie?" Glud suggested, scratching amid the amulets and dragon's teeth which were looped in his coarse, braided hair.

Frodle considered momentarily, then shook his head; a small, oddly comforting figure in homespun, bleached robes.

"No truce would be possible with such as now dominate Faerie," said he. "Nor would we offer one."

"Rhees! Rhees!" cawed Allat, cutting through the air in raven's form. "A truce with the high king, in Rhees!"

"Worthies," Britte interrupted, rather desperately, "you may argue truces and treaties all day… talk the sun 'round the sky, if you will… but please help me think how to safely assist Milord Gawain!"

"Why?" asked the scholar, blinking mildly. "What's he done now, besides run off, again? Terribly unstable, for a paladin. They're supposed to be rocks."

Following the pointing fingers of Britte and Drehn, the halfling first muttered to himself, and then began conjuring instruments of rattling brass and soap-bubble crystal. Using what he'd summoned, Frodle studied the odd phenomenon taking place half a mile distant.

"Gone a bit higher, I see."

Rubbing at the bridge of his wind-reddened nose, Frodle turned back to the anxious young squire.

"Said he why?" the scholar inquired, stumping over with Allat perched at the top of his staff. No larger than a goshawk, now, the shape-changer had to flap his wings to remain in place.

"I… don't know what I can say to you without revealing my lord's business," hedged Britte, backing a step. She'd never been much accustomed to creatures. Even the halfling seemed strange and exotic to her.

But Frodle just shook his curly brown head.

"There can be no distrust, child, if you would travel with Gawain. We are his friends and companions (as unlikely a lot as we seem). If you trust the paladin, then… by extension… trust us."

Britte glanced sideways and upward at Chester. The colt had thrust a callused hand into hers, clasping tight.

"Chet…?" she whispered uncertainly, to the first being she'd befriended since gaining her freedom.

"Friends," he insisted, squeezing her hand. "Da's friends… and us."

Blanchard had already voted… the traitorous, great walking stomach. He'd follow a conjured apple over a cliff. But there… the beast had been bred for size, not cleverness. What else would you expect?

"If we are friends," she began bravely enough, voice a bit dry from the cold and the wind, "then you will not try to hinder my lord's doings, but help me find the means to weave him back into one living man, once the…once that tower is built."

Almost, she'd called it the House, Bridge and Altar, only catching herself as the words brushed her lips.

"If he drags a sky-god into this mess," snapped Drehn, from his place beside Blanchard, "then the other side… Faerie, Rhees or what will you… are likely to respond with their own. A battle on that level would destroy us all, and the world along with us."

Britte flushed hot, red and angry. Gawain would have thought of all this, and it was not the place of a drow to question him. She'd have said as much, too, had Allat not fluttered over to perch on her shoulder, gripping tight with his claws through her tunic and cloak.

Like a bird, he began preening and smoothing her tangled brown hair; still somehow able to speak.

"Un-ruffle your feathers, Britte," he teased. "I've known Sir G for awhile, now… he won me fair and square from a sorceress… and I know he wouldn't do anything outright wrong. _Dumb_, sure, especially if it means keeping a promise. Wrong, _never."_

Britte put her mace away, reaching up with the newly freed hand to caress Allat's feathers. He rocked a bit on her shoulder, talons pricking the girl's chilly flesh.

Quite when it happened, no one could say, but all at once the great structure stood… drifted… coiled… complete. A thing from which the eyes skittered and the mind rebounded. To speak of color, shape and orientation was pointless, for these aspects changed by the moment.

Doors and windows floated all about the strange building, wheeling and darting like petrels. What they opened unto was no mere chamber or stairway but torrential ocean or violently swallowing blackness; roaring fire, or a great frozen city of stone.

"You were saying?" Drehn commented sharply, looking from the structure to Allat.

Had a jeweled Faerie princess been asleep at its apex, or a legion of captive young knights, only a fool or a squire would have gone after them. Only a friend… or friends.

No one was prepared when this sudden enormity collapsed like a house made from cards; becoming first flat, then a line, and then simply gone. In its place stood Gawain, no longer torn to a maelstrom of swirling bits but whole, armed and armoured as Britte had never seen him.

"Sir?" she called, hesitantly.

No longer shabby and mismatched, Gawain bore armour and weapons of deep red and silvery white, surely worth kingdoms.

Britte let go of Chester's hand to face the apparition, who met her gesture by removing his bascinet, mail hood and cloth cap. Even at so great a distance, his coppery hair was familiar. It did much to ground that silvery paragon, making him once more their own.

More importantly, he didn't soar from the rise upon which he'd called forth his deity, but proceeded cautiously. As well a man might, who was picking his way among loose rock and gravel.

Chester got to him first, but only just, hauling shy Britte along on his back. The others came almost as quickly. Feeling forgotten in all the resultant greetings and congratulation, Gawain's squire slipped off to sit on a crumbling, mica-flecked stone.

Looked very grand, he did, and very unhappy. He caught her eye once or twice, turning as if to speak. Each time he was balked, though, and his thought never made it to speech.

Then Frodle took the reins, striking the butt of his staff on a rock for attention. No ordinary shaft of carven wood, it could ring like a gong when he wanted it to.

"Friend Gawain," he said, once the others grew quiet, and only the wind muttered on. "My studies have shown me three questions that I must ask and you must answer; clearly and truthfully. Are you prepared, Sir Knight?"

"I swear t' be truthful," Gawain responded uneasily, moving over to stand beside Britte. She hopped up and bowed to him, feeling more than would fit into words.

"Good enough," said the scholar. Then,

"First… What do the high ones of Faerie look like, in their own land? Second… Why are the gates between their realm and ours yet unopened? And thirdly… Where has the lost one flown?"


	43. 43: Forward

Just a bit more. Thanks, Tikatu and Sam, for reviewing. Will work on the *other* story now, because my daughter will slaughter me, otherwise!

**43: Forward**

_In higher-dimensional spacetime, up to his multiplied surface features in trouble-_

Other than try to negotiate some kind of truce (uncertain, at best) the most John could do was to strengthen and debug Five. Though she ought to have been capable of editing and overwriting her own streaming code, sometimes an outside eye saw better. Plus… maybe… she just enjoyed the interaction.

Certainly those infinite swarming qubits of which she was formed flared brighter and warmer when John reached within to reset a gate or establish new data paths. Some of the addresses in her basic decision-tree library were off, too; meaning that the action she chose might be wildly unsuited to the stimulus (like blasting a hole in the wall when offered a peach, instead of just saying "thanks").

He could fix that, and about ten-thousand other things, much the way Five re-capped John's telomeres, eliminated mutating bone cells and topped off his hormones; erasing wear, tear and mileage.

John knew that she loved him. It was shouted aloud through every ham-handed, bazooka-subtle effort to shelter and please him. The way that she plotted to defend her creator from harm, while letting him feel that he still had some freedom.

In his own way, he loved her right back. Yes, she was an incredibly powerful, fixated being… but one that was starting to learn; beginning to develop some patience.

Her solution to the problem of his basic fragility… locking his physical body up in life-sustaining deep-freeze, somewhere, while his mind roamed the multiverse at her side… was not acceptable to John Tracy. Knowing this, Five was willing to back up his data and let John live as he chose, at constant peril of aging and death.

Not to say that she didn't interfere just a bit… placing knowledge of certain possible future events in his files, say… but she was adult enough now to keep such meddling to a minimum.

When he'd worked on his car, back home in Wyoming, John would finish tinkering, clean up and then carefully lower the hood; allowing it to snap shut with a resounding and musical _'thunk'_. Before stepping away, he'd pat the Charger's hood a few times, saying,

"There you go, Beautiful. All set."

He did this now, with Five. The gentle pats raised showers of glittering bytes from her smoothly curved, lavender surface. Looked like blossoms at an iron foundry, or wind with small lights woven in.

She'd given herself low-average height (about Linda's size and build), with a slim, graceful shape and wide golden eyes. Indeed, beautiful.

"Monitor the parallel world's situation, but stop your activities there. If the 'other side' is going to take this truce-offer seriously, we've got to leave them alone. Understood?"

'_The statement of John Tracy converges to a logical, computational solution. John Tracy is free of error. The quantum entity Five accepts input from John Tracy.'_

"Good," he replied, stepping away to examine perfection. "That's my girl. Keep me posted, and let _them_ make the first move. In the meantime…"

(After all, what good were higher dimensions, if you couldn't take advantage of them?)

"…I've got some dinner to dispose of."

So saying, John reached down, sideways and _other;_ causing his hand to appear, as if from nowhere, at the dining room table, below. This mysterious hand (shrinking and turning blue at its wrist-end) used a serving spoon to scoop up all of the mushrooms and breadcrumbs from John's plate.

Then it vanished, pulling back into upper-where space. Not through, yet, John now reached down-slant-_along_. Quickly, because time was passing in there, he dumped the lot on Virgil's plate, amid a general mish-mash of food. Virgil, you see, would eat just about anything, reaching for ketchup under only the ghastliest, Geneva-convention food violations. This time, the dismembered hand was red, and tapered away at its over-long fingers. Weird.

Five said nothing. She'd have been willing to alter the menu, or adjust John Tracy's metabolism so that he never need eat again. But he remained an organic life-form firmly rooted in thermodynamic laws and four small dimensions. He did not permit overt interference or upgrade.

She could alter other things, though, reversing time as she switched external appearance to a form with ragged black hair and garnet eyes; a strong-willed female of many healed cuts and internal upheavals.

John did a double take. Autumn Drew… despite their violent breakup, still a fond memory. But some things were past, and had to remain that way. Reaching across to touch her face, he said,

"I've got to get back, Five. Call me if anything changes."

And then, with no after-thought at all, but serious intent,

"You don't need disguises. Not anymore. What you are in real life is perfect, already." And with that, he stepped down-sideways-_else,_ and was gone.

The real world smashed down like a hammering lid, slamming John into an oddly tight body and limited senses. Felt like he'd been jammed into a dark shoebox, wearing somebody's size-3 tuxedo, mouse-trap and strait-jacket.

"What was that, Son?" slashed his father's voice, edgewise and thin. Although pinched and flat, he seemed angry. Oh, yeah… the cursing.

"Um…" John never prayed much. Didn't know the right protocols. He did express fervent hope, though, that his senses would soon go back to normal, so he could stop being yelled at by really pissed paper dolls.

Must've been something wrong with the lemonade, John figured. Did the stuff ferment?

"I meant to say: _'Well, what's this?'_ But it came out wrong. Too much salad."

Jeff's grim features were filling out, or else John was seeing things properly, again. Anyway, his father said,

"Nice try, son. Apologize to your mother."

John looked over, glad when the world seemed to track along with his head movements. Not so glad about his mother's unhappy expression.

"Sorry, Mom," he said to Lucinda. "Didn't mean to curse in front of you."

The apology might have gone better if Ricky hadn't picked that moment to repeat John's original, scorching comment. Yeah. He got dish detail for a week.

On the bright side, thanks to Five's sleight-of-hand, nobody noticed his mostly-gone food, and by the time Gordon asked about that d-mn hologram, John was able to add the thing as a sneaky hack to Alan's last role-playing game.

No, they _hadn't_ sat down together to play for awhile, but it was at least _feasible_ that Gordon might have glimpsed the building on a past adventure, and somehow remembered it. Case closed. Slam, bam, thank you, Ma'am.

...But maybe Gordon wasn't entirely convinced by this rational argument. Not even when John assured him that the diagram was impossible; no more than videogame dream-stuff. He might've got a different answer from Brains… if the engineer hadn't been suddenly called away to New York.

So it was in a weird frame of mind… unsettled and bleak… that the swimmer checked his emails for word from TinTin or Royce. (Friend of his; European men's swim team. Late night, much carousing, long story.)

He was up long before dawn. First swimming laps, then stifling his volcanic appetite with whatever came quickest to hand. Cereal and the like. No one else about, not even Kyrano, so Gordon padded out of the kitchen with a towel slung over his broad, freckled shoulders and several dozen granola bars tucked away in his pockets. For later, you understand, because it would be a good two hours or so till breakfast was ready.

Right. His suite still resembled a hospital ward; filled with flowers and cards, surrounding a teddy bear from TinTin with "Je T'aime" sewn onto its fuzzy blue belly. There was also a picture (enlarged to poster size) of himself bursting halfway out of a turbulent pool, arms raised in victory, when he'd won his seventh gold medal. Opposite the bed, it was; an incentive to drag himself back to full health.

Pity that life wasn't at all like a role-playing game, where you just slammed down a potion to make yourself better. No… healing up in the real world took effort and time.

Right. Right… the emails. Just coming to that. Gordon loped inside, deliberately controlling his breath rate, and then dropped the towel onto the floor beside its fellow from the night previous.

Dr. Horrid had ordered him not to exercise "vigorously"… but a few (dozen) laps hardly counted as work. And anyhow, she wasn't around to threaten him with bed-rest and sedatives, was she?

Talking of other things, though, TinTin had been very pleased with the ring. In private video calls, she wore it constantly, switching the bit of bright gold to a less meaningful finger when the phone call was public. He'd thought a good bit before buying it; had actually had the ring lying about for a month before finding the courage to act.

He'd hurt her, you see. Hadn't meant to, but that hardly mattered when TinTin… whom he very much loved… was crying and shaking and gulping apologies, as though she'd been the one to do wrong. He hadn't been thinking straight, then, but was determined to put things right, now. Starting with post-university marriage, if she'd have him.

Part of the reason that he had to get back into shape… _quickly_… was that there were all sorts of male students in France; smooth-talking, accented bastards, the lot of them, with only one thing on their minds.

But, _if_ Gordon got back into trim, _if_ what Royce had suggested worked out… He'd be there in Europe, himself; touring the place as part of an intensive swim-coaching camp. Bump into her all the time, most likely, and scatter those imagined Lotharios like a wolf among rabbits.

In the face of all that, what were a few mostly-healed gunshot wounds? What was an indelible blueprint for something that couldn't exist? Nothing, that's what; nothing at all. Stirred up and eager for word, Gordon went to his computer (always online, despite John's security lectures).

Still a bit damp, he drew forth a chair and sat down at his desk, close to the upright aluminum ladder which served him for a bookshelf and aquarium stand. Two or three keystrokes got the swimmer to his email queue, where a gut-punch surprise was in store.

Blinking and flashing (marked 'urgent' and addressed to Gordon Tracy at his _0lympic_gold7_ addy) was a letter from Captain Dos Santos.

"_Senhor Tracy,"_ it read, _"you rescue me from the fuel tank fire, but now the danger is very much closing to you. Please meet me tomorrow noon in Lima, at the Hostel Benedicto, for learn more. Your friend, Marina."_

_XXX_

_Midworld-_

He might have answered those questions anywhere, but all at once Gawain felt… odd. Concerned, as it were, and hungry. Dreadfully, savagely hungry. So, being in need of time, warmth and food, the knight suggested that they remove to a better location.

The house of the witch was closest, but Glud still had an amulet on his person… the prize for winning an all-you-can-eat dragon steak contest… which would transport their party to the Three-Legged Dog in Meretown. All they need do was link hands and grasp bridles whilst Glud snapped the amulet, and lo, there they were; dumped like fresh laundry in the courtyard of a bustling, snow-covered tavern.

Heads did not turn at their sudden arrival. No voices called questions or wild, drunken jests, although a flock of reptilian poultry reacted quite badly. The birds scattered and shrieked, fluttering onto hitching posts and roof-beams or settling into the frigid thatch.

A lichen-ous troll was slumped by the river-gate; dead, sun-struck or sleeping. It was _that_ sort of place. The only choice for a party which numbered both dark elf and Knight of the Cross as members. Mostly neutral, as such establishments went, with occasional outbursts of violence or zealotry… and quite decent food.

Britte's brown eyes were wide as a cornered cat's. Looking at her, Gawain said,

"'Tis not so bad as all that, Lass… although you might want t' tuck up y'r hair and don leggings. Best not t' be singled out as a female, whatever."

Britte reached beneath her cloak for the long knife he'd given her, didn't find it, and had to borrow Drehn's frost-colored dagger. (Hers being yet with the witch.)

"Sir," she said bravely, taking up a hank of her stubborn brown hair, "Cut it off for me, please? A squire has no business with tresses, and mine have never been aught but a nest for fleas, and a trial."

Gawain hesitated, accepting the blade with reluctance. Leading them into the shadowy corner of wall and outbuilding, he said,

"Y'r certain? A cap or hood would do as well, and a squire's business is her own, should she wish t' keep tresses along with her skirts. I've seen how you fight, and I know."

Britte warmed at that, but truly, the hair had to go, and good riddance. Besides, he touched her whilst gathering up the dark mass and sawing it off. _Himself_, not one of the others.

The halfling watched all this with a faintly pitying smile on his wide sun-burnt face. The drow merely shook his head and then spat to one side, as though Britte's foolish devotion tasted bad. Their shape-changer vanished at some point in the process, yet she scarcely noticed his leaving.

All mischief, Britte tilted her head so that Gawain would have to stop slicing and re-position her, and once in awhile even plucked up the courage to brush against him; feeling a warm thrill that caused the nails to bore into her palms at each stolen touch. It was a very new thing to her, love; strong, unmixed wine, as heady as mortals might sample, and live.

Eventually, the last tangled bits had been chopped away close to her head, leaving the squire feeling shorn and yet lightened. No longer a slave, nor a slashed, frightened child, pinned by hard fists in her hair. Then Allat returned with a pair of new breeches. Dyed blue! Not walnut-stained!

Quite the young lordling, Britte fancied herself, once she'd donned the fine garment and stepped from her skirt. Because hair possessed magick, like names, Gawain did not simply let the stuff lie where it fell. He conjured it away, instead, where no one could use it to do Britte harm. Not ever again.

"Not half bad," he remarked, flipping her chin with sword-roughened fingers. "Not a likelier lad in all the five realms, my oath on it."

Inspired, the knight struggled out of his armour and spelled it aside. They went in soon afterward, seeking (and getting) no special attention. No one who came to the Three-Legged Dog wanted that.

Britte followed at Gawain's boot heels, making bold enough to seize hold of his cloak. So much for the humanoid creatures. Blanchard and Dapple could be stabled, with provender enough for a troop of ravenous warhorses. Chester, though, had to come in.

"That thing housebroken?" growled a brush-bearded dwarf, blearily minding the door. A few silver coins said _yes,_ and got them a well-hidden table, as well.

Gawain would rather have been nearer the hearth, but there were serious matters to discuss, so the less they were seen, the better. Over ale and bread, toasted cheese and good beef with strong mustard, he began answering questions.

As his squire, Britte portioned and served up the meal. This conversation, then, took place amid the leap and crackle of distant flame, rattling tankards and cutlery, and the surging rumble of other patrons (who every so often would start up a roistering song). There were scrabbling vermin and imps in the thatch, of course, but that troubled no one, so long as they didn't drop onto one's plate. Pipe smoke swirled, getting shifted about whenever the door let in wind-sprites and snow.

No one would prompt him, so Gawain began on his own. Bolting the last of his ale, he set down the glass tankard, saying,

"Right… As t' y'r first question, Frodle, th' high lords of Faerie appear howsoever they wish. Made much sport f'r them, th' fact I had not any skill at tellin' them apart in different guises. Her Highness… Lady Anelle, that is… _She _could sense which was whom, but I never managed."

He shrugged, looking everywhere else but the eyes of his friends.

"I was often tricked into offering insult, which Milady had t' smooth over. With me, she clung t' th' form I knew best, that of Lord Morcar's daughter. But with th' court she appeared as she list. Sometimes, when angry, as n' more than a flame or a sunburst."

"Can they do such shape-changing _here?"_ asked the scholar, writing busily. His tome was coffee- and ale-stained already, getting more so as the evening poured slowly toward nightfall.

Gawain considered.

"I believe not," he said, at last. "They remain luminous spirits, unless one should happen t' come upon an unclaimed body, as Anelle did."

"How long unclaimed?" pressed Frodle, looking up from his tome at the downcast young knight.

"Unless feelin' perverse, not long at all. Most would have no wish t' inhabit an obvious corpse, I should think."

He took a drink after that, because Britte had refilled his tankard, giving him something to do besides ramble. Clinging to memory was like clutching a sword by its blade. Get at least a deep cut that way, if not worse.

Chester urged a hank of dark bread on him, as though eating made everything better. But again, no one prompted or pressed him. So he said,

"Question two, if I've recalled it rightly, asked after th' reason that commerce and travel have not yet resumed between this realm and Faerie. Correct…? Right, then. I would guess… assume, rather… that until Milady is placed on th' throne legitimately, th' gates remain sealed t' most passage. The usurper, Lord Reynard, remains. Worse, he's summoned demons t' keep him in power. Anelle is… has chosen t' be his queen, but that is not th' same thing as rulin' th' place in her own right."

No one spoke for a bit. Not those who were masters of the art, nor the few (like Chester and Voreig) who must struggle to be understood.

"She'd not have come t' such a pass had I fought harder," he said to the waiting silence and eyes. "But I wasn't strong enough t' protect her. So, here I sit. And, in answer t' y'r third question, Sir Scholar… _'Where has the lost one_ _flown?'_ Nowhere at all but her own stolen palace, because I failed her in battle."

Frodle stopped writing, his upraised quill dripping magickal ink like the blood from a gashed limb. Frowning, the halfling said,

"There is something wrong with your last conclusion, Friend Gawain. The first two answers were correct. See… this page has been truth-spelled, and falsehood cannot be written there. Your words show up in gold, like so. But the last answer is blotched and illegible. It is untrue."

Gawain flushed nearly as red as his hair.

"I did not lie t' you!" he snapped hotly.

Drehn moved a bit, then, perhaps readying spells beneath the scarred wooden table. Britte put forth a hand and then drew it back, for Sir Gawain was no child to be soothed, but her lord.

Allat took a shape like a manticore kitten, sidling up to bat playfully at the knight's golden cloak brooch. Nearly tore it right off, he did, with his razor paws and wee scorpion's tail. Said Frodle, when the tension had eased,

"I would never believe you the sort who'd cover himself with a lie, Friend Gawain. But it is also possible that you don't see the truth, yourself. In any case, the last statement you made is not accurate, and everything hinges on that."

Gawain wanted to rise in a table-hurling rush and stamp from the room, but did not. Instead, he muttered, staring into the dregs of his ale,

"Perhaps so, but 'tis all I c'n do f'r an answer. Now… yielded t' questions I certainly have. Solved th' problem, I've not. She might be best off with her own kind. Happier, f'r all I ken… but there remains th' trouble afflicting Midworld. And _that_ I will act upon. I mean t' pass through the Steep Reach beyond Rhees, and then seek f'r th' roots of th' World Tree. Alone or with company, 'tis no matter. Should I get so far in safety, I shall find a way t' save th' Tree from whatever's been plaguing it."

Gawain set down his tankard with a sharp thump by way of punctuation, sloshing the last bit of liquor. You might have heard a pixie sigh or an ale-bubble pop… until someone outside started bellowing Gawain's name at the top of a hoarse pair of lungs. No… not _someone_. His father, King Lot.


	44. 44: Shifting Currents

Thanks for reviewing, Bee and Tikatu. I appreciate it. =)

**44: Shifting Currents**

_Manhattan, where everyone dresses in black and weighs less than a paperclip-_

One scientist was problem enough. Two could bring on an aneurism. On the bright side, Dr. Sanderson was absolutely distracted. Minds had never met with quite such a ringing, audible chime.

You see, their new equipment consultant turned out to be Dr. Hackenbacker; the same shy brainiac who'd contributed that eye-catching core scan. No doubt, he was also a corporate bobble-head and Jeff Tracy sycophant, and Cindy was determined to hate him.

Pretty clearly, though, Sanderson felt differently. Cindy hadn't known that the woman possessed any human emotions at all besides annoyance and superiority… much less that she knew how to blush.

_Stupid._ Love was stupid and random; striking here and there for no reason, while others waited forever. Because the two PhDs were purring and rubbing their intellects like a couple of randy cats, Cindy left the conference room in a huff that afternoon, mumbling something about studying her mission schedule… ironing socks…

Anyhow, not really paying attention, she soon got lost in the maze-like corridors of WorldGov's office building. Not hard to do, when every grey bend and tan doorway looked precisely alike. She was much too stubborn to ask for directions, though. D-mned if she'd show that much weakness, not if it took her all _day_ to get back to her room. No one stopped to offer assistance, either, possibly because of her mutinous scowl and chic-severe clothing.

Then, rounding yet another beige corner, Cindy ran into Paul Metcalfe. Big chest, broad shoulders, green flight suit… you get the picture.

"Ms. Taylor," he stammered, a little nervously, "What brings you to the simulator level? Not that, um… you're not welcome here. I mean, any time you want to get a feel for… that is, if you're looking for something…"

Wow. Seriously? How anyone _that_ good-looking could be so disastrously uncertain around women was an utter mystery to Cindy. Shaking her head, she planted both hands on her hips, regarding Paul Metcalfe with laser intensity. Then,

"Tell you what, Captain. I'm about to cut to the chase and try something dumb. Feel free to sue me for sexual harassment afterward. You seem like the type who _would."_

So saying, she stepped forward, took his freshly shaved, soap-smelling face in her hands, and hauled him down for a kiss. Their mouths bumped together and…

Nothing. Just… not a thing. No sparks or chemistry. Nothing at all, except that Metcalfe had gone red as a stoplight, and he tasted like fresh spearmint chewing gum.

"I… there's … there's a girl," he sputtered when the kiss ended and they broke apart.

"Save it, Blue-Eyes," Cindy told him. "I've gotten more of a charge getting kissed by my uncle Floyd… _before _he put in his teeth."

And then, because the tall officer looked genuinely hurt,

"Oh, come on… That was sarcasm, Metcalfe. A joke. It's what I do when I'm uncomfortable; slash at the people around me like a godd-mn rabid hyena. I don't know what to say except: sorry. I was expecting something… _somebody_ else."

Paul shifted his stance. Had he been perched on a red-hot electrified tilt-board, he couldn't have looked any less at ease.

"Well, um… I certainly hope that you find what you're looking for, Ms. Taylor. Because, you know… My mother used to say that there's plenty of fish in the sea. Sometimes you just have to try switching baits. I…"

"Stop," Cindy grumped, very much not in the mood for a pep-talk from Sparky the Blue-Eyed Wonder Scout. "You're giving me a migraine. What, are you from Kansas, or something?"

"Iowa," he replied stoutly. She could almost see rippling grain, fruited plains and an American flag behind him.

"Figures. _Shoo!_ Go read your prayer book. I've got to head off in search of someplace high enough to kill me at one jump, without leaving a messy corpse."

He stiffened.

"Ma'am, you're not seriously feeling suicidal, are you? Because…"

_"Joke,_ Metcalfe! Humor! Funny! Oh, my God! You probably laugh at Bugs Bunny cartoons and then repeat the lines, afterward… Sorry. Forgot myself, for a second."

Sighing with near hurricane force, Cindy thrust out a hand.

"Okay. Starting over. Here's to a successful and productive work relationship, Captain Metcalfe."

The officer blinked.

"You're not going to kiss me again, are you?" he demanded nervously.

"Sparky... not if you were rolled in milk chocolate, gold-dust and thousand-dollar bills. Trust me, you're safe."

Grinning ruefully, Metcalfe accepted and shook her proffered hand.

"I'm _that_ bad a kisser?" he wondered aloud.

Cindy smiled back.

"Try practicing on your fist or the mirror, Sparky. The cows haven't taught you much."

"Ma'am, where I'm from…"

"_Arrghh!_ Metcalfe, one favor, okay? Don't call me _Ma'am._ Not ever. Even if I'm elected president someday, you have permission to call me Taylor, or Cindy, or Jerk-wad, for all I care. _Anything,_ but Ma'am. Got it?"

"Well, I… certainly. Just being respectful. But if you'd really prefer…"

"I prefer. Now, do me a second favor, Sparks, and point me at the cafeteria. All of this torrid by-play has worked up a serious appetite."

Again, nothing. Handing lines to Paul Metcalfe was like ramming a school bus and then backing up hard to hit it again. He _did_ get her to the dining room, at least, without sustaining much more verbal damage.

…But how she was supposed to survive a month in the Drill Monster with Mr. Clean and a love-sick physicist, Cindy had no idea. Most likely, she was going to go nuts.

XXX

_Tracy Island-_

Gordon did not so much leave his room as explode from it; moving at an adrenaline- and granola-fueled rush. Ought to have waited for a more decent hour, perhaps, but the matter… that email… was urgent.

That's what sent him blazing to the door of his parents' suite, printout in hand; what led him to alternately hammer on booming wood and then press the intercom switch.

"Dad! Hey, Dad!" He called, loudly enough to bring Alan and Virgil blinking and yawning into the hall. "Come out here, it's important!"

Jeff yanked the door open, standing bleary and grim in blue-striped pajama bottoms and compressed grey chest hair.

"Son," he growled, "It d-mn well better be. _Do you have any idea what time it is?"_

"Five AM," Gordon responded distractedly, shoving the printout at his tousled and unhappy father. "Take a look at this, and then put me on KP right beside John, if you want to."

Jeff muttered something that threatened to become a deep, jaw-cracking yawn. Then he took the paper, holding it slightly away in order to better read it. The color drained all at once from his pillow-creased face, leaving Jeff a very pale, worried man.

"Son," he said, quietly, "I'd like to see you in my office in ten minutes; showered, shaved and properly dressed. We need to talk."

By that time, however, Alan and Virgil had gathered around. Worse, Lucinda came up behind her tall husband, sleepy young Ricky clasped in her arms.

"Jeff? Boys? What's going on?" She inquired, to which Virgil added,

"Got to admit, I'm kind of curious myself, Dad. What's happened?"

Blame it on the early hour, or the general aura of confused tension. Whatever, Alan tried to lighten things up with quick, stupid joke.

"Gordon released a sex tape," he said brightly. "It got panned."

_Oookay…_ That went over well. Lucinda spun on her slippered heel and strode away from the door, taking Ricky right along with her. Poor kid was going to grow up and write a tell-all book, for certain. In the meantime, Virgil had turned to stare at Gordon.

"Did you?" he asked, looking like he was about to laugh. "Who with?"

"No!" snapped his red-haired and frustrated brother. "It's nothing like… the fighter pilot! Dos Santos! She emailed me! _She knows who I am!"_

"Which is why," Jeff cut in, taking the figurative reins back, "we need to talk. Ten minutes, my office, all of you. Get John, as well. Scott should already be over there. In the meantime, I'll be calming your mother back down. And, Alan…?" Their father's hard gaze skewered his next-youngest son.

"Yes, Sir…?" (All tense and shaky inside, ready for anything.)

"Grow up."

XXX

_Midworld, at the Three-Legged Dog in snowbound Meretown-_

Gawain paused before acting, just to be certain. But there was no doubt on the matter. His father, the king of wild, barren Orkney, was outside shouting his name. Unless a doppelganger had chosen to accost him… but this did not bear thinking about, as a doppelganger must first slaughter a man, in order to take on his form.

A bit pale, the knight pushed away from their table and got to his feet, causing the wooden bench to scrape across stone-flagged floor and dank rushes. The others rose, as well, but Gawain shook his head, meaning to learn what was stirred up against him, alone.

Rather a longer walk to the door it seemed, this time. Especially with that ill-tempered dwarf (was there any other kind?) snapping,

"Anyone here called Gawain? Regular pest of a paladin out there, hollering the name like a drunken…"

"I am Gawain," the knight told him, making direct and dangerous eye-contact; stormy hazel to red-veined grey. "And th' man is my father. Speak ill of him again, Master Dwarf, and y'll be feelin' about f'r y'r misplaced head."

The door-keeper scowled, scratching hard at his verminous beard. Then, correctly pegging the knight's noble status from his spurs, sword-belt and stance, the dwarf stepped aside.

"No insult intended, Good Sir. I'm paid to stop trouble, not make it. He's yours, if you want him."

Honour demanded more, but Gawain found himself not wishing to turn a few foolish words into bloodshed. Not when he had other, more pressing, troubles. Let the dwarf keep his head, then. He needed it far more than Gawain did.

"Give half a day's wage t' th' poor, and think better, next time," said the knight, laying a minor geas on the creature as he strode past.

The weather outside had worsened considerably; snow biting slantwise like a wood-cutter's axe, wind like slivers of glass. Not where his father was, though. On horseback in a bubble of warmth, King Lot appeared not even to notice the wild, frigid night.

A magickal sending, then, rather than his actual presence. Nevertheless, potentially dangerous. Gawain started forward at once, forcing an air of assurance he just didn't feel. Behind him, the tavern door creaked and then thumped. Someone pattered up in his wake, short on breath and wisdom, both. Knee-deep in snow, Gawain pivoted furiously; catching his squire in the act of following.

Speaking at one and the same moment, they said,

"Britte…!"

"Sir, if you please, I…"

She had to fight the instinct to flinch at his sudden, sharp movement, but the knight merely pointed back the way she'd come.

"Get you inside. If you follow orders n' better than this, then 'tis best off alone, I am."

Shaken, Britte bowed deeply. She did not, however, leave him. Willing her teeth not to chatter from cold and alarm, she said,

"Sir, all the shouting could lead to battle, so my proper place is here, at your side. You engaged no scullery-maid but a loyal squire… and… and that's just what I'm trying to be."

She'd been left behind at the cliff-top, when he'd gone off to face his god… but tricks with blue flame would not work this time. Nothing would, short of curses and blows.

Perhaps her earnestness moved him. Possibly he'd grown weary of arguing. At any rate, Gawain softened once more.

"Come no farther, but stand ready, then, if you will. We shall talk of this, later."

"Yes, Milord. Not a step shall I stir, nor a word speak, unless you've need of me."

She did not quite dare to smile her relief, or to glance at the waiting visitor, until Gawain nodded, mussed her newly-cut hair, and then turned away.

The other man was past middle age, with a grey beard and a lined, weary face. He wore armour and trappings of scarlet and white (purer than could be got through mere bleaching, she thought). His horse, too, was white, and caparisoned as she fancied an earl's or a king's mount would be.

The mace hung yet at her belt, and Drehn's icy dagger, too. Britte clutched both for good luck. She'd a feeling her lord would soon need it.

For his own part, Gawain walked steadily; head up and heart hammering. About halfway to the spot where his father's sending awaited him, the armour and kit of a paladin returned to clothe him once more.

Lot grew very still for a moment. Then his face changed. The stiffness and severity vanished, and the old man smiled.

"'Tis true, then," he said, in a voice deep and rough from much shouting in battle. "The oracle spoke aright, and y've returned t' the Order."

Gawain hadn't stopped walking, though his pace and stride changed a bit from all of that suddenly-added weight. Even so, those last few yards felt a good deal less like the steps to a gallows. Better yet, inside his father's magickal sphere, the wind died down.

Close by the side of Lot's image, he dropped to one knee and lowered his head.

"I returned less than a fortnight ago, Milord. Until this evening, th' time was spent largely in battle, in healin' and pursuit."

His father's sending dismounted from the cloud-coloured charger, which shook itself with a relieved little snort and a jingle of harness. Gaining solidity as he walked, Lot came nearer. Near enough to place a gauntleted hand on his youngest son's shoulder. Said the king,

"The oracle spoke of other doings, as well, Gawain. She said you'd constructed the House, Bridge and Altar. Is this so?"

There was an awed note in his father's deep voice that caused Gawain to risk a glance upward. When their eyes met, the king of Orkney offered a hand to the young knight and raised him back to his feet. Then, to Gawain's shock and discomfort, Lot bowed.

"Father…"

"You've seen Him? Spoken with Him?"

"Aye, but…"

"What said He? Was there direction given? A quest handed down? Speak, Lad!"

How he got there, Gawain had no idea, but all at once Sir Kent arrived, too. Warm-hearted, valorous Kent, the man (with Lord Morcar) who'd trained him in knighthood. Then Argonne, Merrick, Cuthbert and last of all, Ravencall. Perhaps they'd been near, all along, waiting to learn what would happen.

Then must Sir Gawain explain all; his leaving of Faerie and rescue of slaves, and lastly the summons to appear before the God of their Order.

"What did He look like?" Asked Kent, in almost a whisper. "Was He noble of brow? Kingly in mien?"

"More like a very bright light, as it were… source-less, and endless," said Gawain, still a bit stunned by this change in their attitudes. "I spoke of my reasons f'r comin' there, and asked whether I might not be allowed t' keep my present companions and squire."

The other knights grew quite intent at this, for anything spoken by their Deity would be the first direct revelation they'd had in many generations.

"And what response did He make?" Asked Prince Ravencall (a blond high-elf; ageless and stern).

Gawain inhaled sharply, folding mailed arms across his chest as he bethought himself back.

"I tried t' reason that one may do good through less than pure means, thinkin' to excuse my companions, and… well, He said He'd consider th' matter. Wrote it up on th' walls, actually."

"On the walls?"

"Aye."

Could a god change? And if so, what did that mean for his stubbornly literal followers? Shifting topics, Gawain remarked,

"He said, too, that there's been some sort of bond forged between our world and another; a link made by the gods of that place. He considers it an attack."

"Then our course is clear," said his father. "In defense of our world, we must find and sever this link."

Lot's notion took the others as fire takes thatch, but Gawain was less certain. He hadn't long to think about it, though, for his father soon drew him away from the other paladins, leaving them to their bright-eyed furor and planning.

"Gawain," he said, "there is another matter I would speak with you of. Lord Morcar… ken you aught of his daughter, Anelle? The man lies dyin', for he's not so shielded from time as we five. Y' went with her t' Faerie, and then… placed her safe upon th' throne, secure in power?"

It would not have troubled his father had Gawain said _yes;_ that he'd backed Anelle's claim and then left her, for lasting relations were rare with their sort. Lot had come to the Order late, or he'd never have married at all.

Only… it wasn't like that, and Gawain could not agree.

"I will bring him word of her," said the red-haired knight, very quietly.

His father studied Gawain in silence for the space of two or three heartbeats. Then he said,

"The news is not good?"

"Sir… I hardly know where t' begin, but respectfully, it were better delivered t' Morcar himself, first."

"I understand," Lot nodded. "Do what you must, Lad. You may tell me th' rest when we ride out against these foreign godlings."

Then, looking past his uneasy son at young Britte.

"Yon stands th' squire you spoke of?"

"Aye."

Turning, Gawain beckoned her forward.

"Come, Britt. The king, my father, would see and speak with you."

Britt? Oh, of course… she was to be male, now, in seeming. Squaring her shoulders, the squire came forward. Never in her short life had she approached so much as a bannerette, much less an actual king. The moment was gilded, and rang like a very clear bell.

"Sir," Gawain announced formally, placing his hands on her shoulders, "this is Britt of the Northwood, a squire as bold and importunate as y'll ever encounter. Th' terror of fiends and lake monsters everywhere. Britt, here is my sire: Lot, head of the Order, King of Orkney and the western Sheep Isles."

Put that way, it didn't sound like much, mostly because it wasn't. And even this little bit, he did not stand to inherit, being the seventh son of a seventh son; child of a marcher lord who'd married Morgause, a barefoot and scowling island princess with red hair and strong magick. Brothers he had in plenty… with uncles and cousins by the cartload and spade… but of land and gold, none at all.

Seemed quite grand to Britte, however. She bowed deeply, scarcely hearing the king's words over the pound and surge of her own rushing blood. Touching the top of her head, he told her.

"Be ever stout of limb and ready of courage, Lad. Serve y'r lord well, and he shall see that you rise t' th' rank of knight. Perhaps even paladin."

Some sort of noise escaped her. Most definitely, her jaw flopped and her head nodded. The king must have sympathised, for he smiled rather than grew angry.

So far, so good… but there was more. Having sensed a number of quiet shadows lurking here and about in the snow-covered courtyard, Gawain set Britte aside and beckoned, again.

"There are also my other companions, Sir, whom you encountered last in an ice cave, one-and-twenty years ago."

Lot frowned consideringly. He remembered that sorry lot of assorted creatures… and also recalled what Gawain had said of his meeting with their Deity.

"Wrote it up on th' walls, did He?" the king repeated, a bit dubiously.

"Aye. That he did, Sir."

"Then you'd best bring your company forward. I'll not say that 'tis not passin' strange, but… the gods keep their own counsel, right enough. _Kent! Argonne! Merrick! Cuthbert! Ravencall!_ Come. It is time we made peace."


	45. 45: Rock and a Hard Place

Thanks, Mitzy, Sam and Bee! Will edit and respond to earlier reviews post haste. My husband wants to go for a drive, first. Edited.

**45: A Rock and a Hard Place**

_Tracy Island, 5:12 AM-_

It was a chastened Alan… present, but very quiet… who joined his father and brothers in the office some ten (-ish) minutes later. He had only the sketchiest notion what Gordon was on about with his talk of Dos Santos and dangerous emails, but didn't want to risk drawing attention to himself by asking a stupid question. Find out in the meeting, right?

Besides, the looks Gordon was shooting him would have had to come equipped with thermo-nuclear-cyanide warheads to be any deadlier. _Dang!_ For real, you make one little joke, and everyone gets all weird on you!

The sun was still dithering about the business of getting up, so Jeff's office contained that pearly, between-the-window-slats gleam that you get in the tropics, near dawn. A few impatient birds were clearing their pipes outside, providing the usual avian tune-up noises; screeches and caws, mostly, with sometimes a long, thrilling, liquid-gold trill.

Kyrano glided in with an engraved silver tray full of coffee, pastries and fruit, his round face as smooth and calm as ever. On the Titanic, he'd have been the one serving tea to the bridge crew, trousers rolled up, while the frigid North Sea lapped his ankles.

Alan snagged a bagel and smeared it with his usual power mix of strawberry, honey, pecan and hazel-nut cream cheese. Hey, taste-buds were meant to be _used,_ right? In _this_ mouth, everyone worked! No slacking.

You don't have problems. Know how come he could say that? Because you weren't the youngest guy in a room full of frickin' heroes, that's why. Take Scott: tall, handsome, ripped, and a decorated fighter pilot. Basically, Dad, Jr.

Not enough for you? How about John: taller still, with magazine-cover, sell-anything looks, awesome hacker skills and a job piloting spacecraft for the WSA. A real pain in the butt at mealtimes, but in a crisis situation, you wanted the seat right by _his._

Okay, next came Virgil, who was built like frickin' _Hercules_. The dude had rejected a golden-ticket career in pro football to fly missions for their father, managing to rescue himself from a hostage situation in Brazil, even. All this, and he was a genuinely nice person. The least affected by being richer than Midas' landlord. He could paint and play the piano, too, so throw in that sensitive-guy appeal, and stand back in awe.

(Are they shriveling yet? Scooting back on inside? Alan's sure were. If not, keep reading.)

Yeah… Gordon. Peach of a guy. Red hair, sorta nothing-much face with a broken-nose bump and hazel eyes. Kind of short, but with a laser-chiseled swimmer's physique and (said the females who tumbled constantly into his lap) shy, awkward charm. A pile of gold medals, too, worse luck.

And then… hang onto your crying towels, folks… Alan couldn't even win the youngest and cutest award. Ricky nailed that, every time.

Oldest and most respected was dad, Jeff Tracy; ex-astronaut and Air Force officer, captain of industry with so much sloshing left over testosterone that he'd started his own high-risk rescue squad.

Given all _that_… where and how was Alan supposed to fit in? Much less, as his dad had commanded, grow up? His one shot was maybe the car (already nicknamed _Tamale_, because she was hot). Only, no one but Gordon and John was listening. Nobody else took his dream at all seriously.

So… yeah. Now what? Apologize to Gordon and mom, maybe? Try to get his red-haired brother out of whatever dumb fix he'd landed in, this time?

Thinking so, Alan took a seat beside him on their usual mission-briefing perch; a worn, brown leather couch facing the desk, but kind of far back. Gordon didn't look at him, still being mad or something, but he didn't move away, either.

Scott was up by the desk, standing at almost attention. John meanwhile leaned against a nearby wall in his normal closed posture; arms folded, expression chilly and inward. (You had to get to know him, to see much past the icy, all-work facade.)

Virgil sat on a chair he'd pulled up to the desk, looking worried. Getting kidnapped had left an impression, maybe, but it wasn't one he felt like talking about. Not with Alan, at least.

Dad, naturally, held center stage, along with that printout and a cup of hot coffee. He opened the meeting by looking around to make sure that everyone was there. Then he said,

"I appreciate your promptness, boys. I realize it's early… but the situation is critical enough to warrant immediate attention."

He set down his heavy ceramic mug… just so… right on the previous desktop vapor-ring.

"As you are aware, Gordon was shot near the end of the Riverside Fuel Depot mission. Got a downed pilot and company employee into the rescue basket before losing consciousness, but couldn't account for what happened to him between pick-up and infirmary. Am I right, Son?"

Jeff had turned to face Gordon, by this point. The swimmer nodded, looking guilty and miserable.

"That's about the size of it, Dad. Plus, I thought… just as I was starting to fade out… that I felt someone messing about with my helmet. Tugging at it, or something."

Jeff frowned, rubbing his recently-shaved, still-tingling chin.

"That would be consistent with Brains' report that you'd received some first aid before being taken aboard. He stated in debrief that your helmet was still strapped and in place… but it's certainly possible that Dos Santos removed it to check your vital signs, recognized you and then replaced it quickly enough that Brains never noticed. He was busy at the time, if you recall."

"But why get in touch with him now, almost a month later?" Scott asked their father. "Is she looking for hush money? A job with IR? What does the email _say_, exactly?"

Jeff read it aloud, not attempting an accent or feminine tones. It was Alan, spiked into ending his silence, who spoke first.

"I dunno… Hostel Benedicto?" he mused. "I saw a couple of those old _'Hostel'_ movies on the thriller network, once. Dude, you need to steer clear of any place with a name like _that._ They torture people over there, for _fun."_

Gordon shook his red head impatiently.

"I wasn't planning to rush right over like an idiot and check in at the front desk. Told dad, didn't I? And I don't think…"

His head tilted and his face got all pinched, as the swimmer thought back to that night of roaring water and leaping flames. To gunshots, Dos Santos… the basket spinning as it rose toward the safety of a great, rumbling green aircraft marked with a spot-lit "2".

"I don't think Captain Dos Santos means to blackmail me. I think she's found something out, and she's trying to warn me of trouble."

Nobody gainsaid him. They'd all had brief and vivid encounters with civilian rescue personnel or courageous disaster victims; people who'd singled themselves out by jumping into the breach for a uniformed stranger, and had left amazingly strong impressions.

"What bothers me," said Jeff, raking a big-knuckled hand through his wavy grey hair, "Is the timing. That, and something that the Brazilian Defense Minister said to me, while I was waiting to see Virgil. He said that he _knew_ I was involved with International Rescue, and that he had a witness. I played it off at the time, mostly by going on the offensive… but maybe the 'witness' is Dos Santos. In which case, if she's having second thoughts, she may be in danger, herself."

Up till that moment, John had not spoken or moved. Now he pushed himself away from the ivory-and-teak-paneled wall. Shoving both hands in his pockets, John said,

"Here's another scenario. Suppose you didn't jump the right way when accused of running IR, so they're coming at this from a fresh angle, using Dos Santos as bait to see whether Gordon will bite. She may not even be the one who sent the message. Anyone could. They print instructions for that kind of hack on the backs of baby-food jars."

"So, we're supposed to just sit here and do nothing?" Virgil demanded, looking particularly stubborn. "Captain Dos Santos could be taking a big risk trying to get in touch with us. I don't know about just leaving her high and dry like that… Doesn't feel right, folks."

John shrugged.

"I'm just thinking security, Virgil. You guys can do what you want. I'll help pick up the pieces. But if you're interested in partly turning the tables, one of our British operatives… Penelope Ward… has just changed her status to _'active'._ She has a world-traveling socialite cover, and might be able to poke around in Lima without raising suspicion."

"Just _now_ changed her mission status?" asked Jeff, face rumpling thoughtfully. He recalled the young noblewoman, vaguely, as an impeccably dressed blonde with a large estate and frosty mannerisms. "Again, people… _timing._ Why now, when we could really use an operative with that particular public front? Considering the list contained in the Hood's black book, _everything's_ suspicious."

John was not an especially animated young man… astronauts were trained to be utterly unflappable… but he looked like he'd caught the tail of a really important thought.

"If you like," he said cautiously, "I can run a few quick checks; investigate her recent background, for you."

Jeff nodded briskly, saying,

"By all means, Son. Look into Lady Penelope and see what you turn up. If she's clean, and you can forge a closer working relationship, do so. If not… if she's part of the Hood's secret network… we'll have to assess how much she knows about this organization, and then find a way to convert her."

Right. John was having odd visions of the sun-drenched Greek isles and deep blue Aegean, at the moment. It was all he could do to mutter,

"Yes, Sir. I'm on it."

"Good man," Jeff responded, his mind already shifting tracks. To the room in general, he said, "It seems to me, boys, that while Marina Dos Santos may have seen and recognized Gordon, she hasn't got any pictures or proof. They would have been mentioned or hinted at, otherwise."

As Kyrano padded silently around the room, re-filling coffee cups and collecting leftovers, Jeff went on speaking.

"Gordon, I recommend that you respond like a harassed celebrity who gets these kinds of notes all the time. Thank her for her interest and concern, etc, forward the URL for your fan club and let her know you'll report all this to the proper authorities. As Jim Springfield likes to say: Act Surprised, Show Concern, Admit Nothing. Make the other side jump first. In the meantime, I'll get in touch with our people at Interpol. _They,_ and possibly Lady Penelope, are the best choice to handle this one. If something serious turns up, we'll step in through a trustworthy local operative."

Smart… but a little depressing, from Gordon's point of view. He'd read a story once where some clueless prig teacher graded and red-penciled a student's impassioned love note and then simply handed it out with rest of the work. This felt rather the same.

"Come across as a real jerk, won't I?" he worried aloud. "I mean, the absolute, finishing touch would be to send her an autographed picture: _'Best wishes, Gordon Tracy'._ Now, there's something to hang onto, when she's caught and dragged off by the Hood's network of zombies."

…Because, deep down, he felt that Marina was somehow trapped and in danger. Deeper than that, he wanted to rush to her aid.

"There's a time to be emotional, Son… the night before your wedding, first child, your dog dies… and there's a time to just wait, relax and let the professionals do their job," Jeff told him, as though this bit of wisdom covered everything. "Point is, we're stuck in a hip-deep morass, under public scrutiny, and there's no place for false moves or loose cannons. Understood?"

Not really, but Gordon nodded, anyhow. It's what they expected, after all.

XXX

_Manhattan, where everyone but love-bitten scientists wore black, and at least one person had devoured enough post-let down ice cream to put on a few ounces-_

Their first real mission test took place in the stark-white and echoing simulator room. Doctor Sanderson, Captain Metcalfe and their embedded reporter/ liaison climbed into a Drill Monster mock-up; suited up and armed with their launch roles.

Metcalfe would pilot, of course (if that was the right term for plunging through the Earth's crust using neutronium drills and heavy, seethingly dangerous radioactive pellets).

Sanderson would maintain and operate her invention, an ultra-powerful EM field generator. When they reached the target magma plume, she'd cut on the generator; sending pulses of organized charge through this molten antenna straight on down to the core.

Taylor's job involved what she'd done all of her adult life: collecting and sorting data, seeking and reporting patterns. Cindy was admirably suited for this task in experience and basic temperament, though she was still coming to terms with her crewmates. But considering that this mission was the story of the d-mn century, she would cheerfully have sold body parts to stay where she was, Metcalfe and Sanderson or no.

Their TA technical rep, this Hackenbacker, had already made several modifications to the Drilling Machine's basic design. He would also be in constant radio contact throughout simulations and mission, both. Turned out he wasn't that bad (or else Cindy was starting to build up immunity).

One morning, very early, they were conducted to the simulator and strapped in by a smiling, blue-uniformed support crew. Metcalfe up front at the controls, Sanderson and Taylor seated back to back at their specialist and comm stations. A pair of slanted mirrors had been mounted over their heads so that they could glance at each other without turning around.

Nice, but the mock-up featured only a cockpit, so far. The real thing was supposed to have a cramped living area and waste disposal booth, as well. No shower.

It was the cockpit which mattered most, now. In it, they would simulate two things repeatedly over the next week: launch and deployment. Sleeping and eating, presumably, could be handled without an actual script.

After they were strapped into place and sealed in, the dress rehearsal began. Hackenbacker kicked things off with a transmitted hail of,

_"Ah… C- Core Mission, this is Surface Base. H- How do you read?"_

Cindy cleared her throat before replying,

"You're coming in loud and clear, Doctor. Ready for the status list?"

"_F- Fire away," _said the engineer, as professionally as though he did this kind of thing all the time.

"That's you, Metcalfe," she half-turned to call out. "Give him the skinny."

Nodding (for there were cameras and gaze-trackers all over the mock-up), Paul began to rattle off the name and status of each system the Drill Monster possessed, even those which would not be engaged for weeks. His quiet, droning voice filled the mock-up's grey ceramic interior for several long minutes.

Cindy listened intently, taking mental notes for her press update, and staring at a control panel full of mostly green lights. Mostly, because the simulation crew liked to throw in the occasional glitch, just to see how well, and how quickly, she responded.

This time, her comm panel's charge indicator showed yellow and sour as lemons. Having read and re-read the mission notes (nothing better to do) Cindy knew to open a pocket in her left armrest, fetch out a fresh battery and replace the faltering dud. Click, slam, bang. Five seconds, total.

Dr. Sanderson was being tested, as well. Her board showed a problem with their load of meat-loaf-sized radioactive pellets. The mass had supposedly shifted, causing the shielding on one side of the Drill to fail. Not a quick fix, but Sanderson managed, earning a quiet,

"_W- Well done, Myrna," _from their stuttering guardian angel.

Said the physicist,

"Thank you, Base, but I should have caught it sooner. In a real life situation, we'd be down to three-quarters shielding beneath the crew rest area. I'll work on my response time and alertness, though."

Was it meaningful, at all, that _she_ was being babied with battery problems while Sanderson and Metcalfe battled a regular hydra of flashing lights and downed circuits?

"I make coffee, too," Cindy said aloud, to no one in particular.

"I'm sorry?" the pilot asked, turning halfway 'round in his chair. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Cindy grumbled, staring at the comm board accusingly. "I'm just wondering when they're going to give me more to do than test Christmas tree lights."

Metcalfe grinned at her. In his own element, he was a different man; relaxed and assured.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that, Ms. Taylor. Knowing the WSA crew, they'll have you arm-pit deep in Snafus before you can say 'Simone'."

Because no woman liked hearing another extolled… especially by hot, nearby males, Cindy said,

"Put away the mouth-breathing fantasies, Sparky. I'm not into threesomes, no matter how much you call out her name."

Poor Metcalfe reddened beyond the tips of his hair and into the air around him. Surprisingly, though, Sanderson chuckled a little. Peering at Cindy via those paired, slanted mirrors, she whispered,

"That was mean. _Funny,_ but mean. I'll bet you were the girl everyone secretly hated and publicly sucked-up to, in high school."

Cindy had a comeback for that one. She just didn't use it. Adjusting her ponytail with the help of her mirror-reflection, the reporter said,

"Back then, I wouldn't have cared if everyone hated me, so long as they paid close attention and got the h3ll out of my way. I wanted courtiers and an audience, not friends."

Asked Sanderson, cocking an un-groomed brown eyebrow,

"Has anything changed?"

This was irritating and unanswerable. Fortunately, Cindy was spared the necessity of responding by their simulator's abruptly-triggered launch routine. Engine noises started up all at once, together with a convincing vibration, shot through by the shrill whine of idling drill motors.

Metcalfe and Hackenbacker squawked back and forth for several minutes; playing their escalating game of pre-launch acronym tennis. Every so often, Taylor was called upon to chime in with updates from Geo-Net or the Word Space Agency. Mostly, though, she just stared at her monitor board and listened in, hard.

The countdown ended with a brief, sharp chime, and then their mock-up's engines and cutting blades keened to full, shrieking life. Vibration picked up, too. They were at full power, according to her control panel, and Cindy so noted in a dry, tight little voice. She needed Abe's cynical feedback right then, or a tall, cold glass of Long Island Iced Tea.

"Engines at full power, blades operational," said a competent stranger in a voice like her own.

"Engines at full power, Comm. Thank you," Paul repeated, adding, "Initiating clamp release, and beginning descent."

Cindy didn't look at him. Her dark eyes didn't flick up to the overhead mirror for a glance at Sanderson, either. Instead, because this time she was part of the story and not just reporting it, Cindy focused.

Moments later, she heard and felt a loud, clanging rattle. Her comm board's exterior view screen next showed the clamps being retracted, freeing their drill to start down its ramp and into a cavernous, mountainside hole. _Lucky Strike Mine,_ some programming wit had decided to call it.

The images were quite realistic; her sense of juddering motion compelling. Around her, the craft swung, bounced and rumbled like a great, heavy truck with crappy suspension. There was a powerful counter-rotation effect, too, transmitted through hull, seats and equipment.

Made sense. Blades turned one way, while the machine tried to compensate by rotating in the other direction. They needed more power to the dampening field, and it was Cindy's job to say so.

"Myrna, the angular momentum damper needs boosting. We've got a fairly serious shimmy developing, here."

"More power to the damper, Comm. Thank you," Sanderson replied, adding in a low whisper, "You're supposed to address the station, Cindy. I'm specialist, he's pilot. Helps to keep things collegial."

"Uh-huh. Great. How about boosting those dampers then, Special Myrna? My gauges are red-lining, over here."

Sanderson complied, just ahead of Hackenbacker's quiet prompt. Some of the drill's quivering tension vanished, and then they were sliding down-ramp like a sail-cloth bound corpse being buried at sea.

They did not hit water, though, but shadow; the dense, waiting darkness of a hadean mine shaft. Cindy watched the outside world in her exterior screen view until it shrank to a luminous point and then vanished.

"Insertion achieved. Status, Comm?" Prompted Metcalfe, as smoothly as if his words were part of the script.

"Looking good across the board, Captain Metcalfe," Cindy responded, because she'd be stubborn and cross-grained to the last; would express things her own way, even if it meant she'd end spitting blood and teeth onto somebody's boot.

"Green across the board, Comm. Thank you. Specialist?"

"Payload and ballast are secure, Captain Met… I mean, Pilot."

_(Hah! She was viral. Practically an infection…!) _

"Payload and ballast secure. Thank you, Specialist. Approaching dig point. View-screen shielded… 20 seconds to contact… 15… 10… 5… Brace for contact…"

Their drill (gun-barrel blue and snarling like something that might die, but would d-mn well take you right along with it) impacted the mine's first major kink. It struck iron-veined granite, then took hold and began to chew, with a sharply amplified howl. Rock dust and lubricant blasted away from the bore-hole, clogging Cindy's exterior cameras and roaring across the hull with a noise like an F-5 tornado.

Almost at once, the Drill Monster began shuddering, and cabin temperature spiked. 90 degrees, 105… Something popped and spang-ed, letting needle-thin jets of steam into the cockpit.

Alarms went off, possibly. Maybe. She couldn't hear them, but definitely saw all the flashing red, steam fogged lights. Hackenbacker's faint voice was too distant and drowned to be any help at all. The shaking increased, and their craft began to tip, rolling in the opposite direction of a jammed drill's massive torsion.

The resultant noise was horrendous, like holding a stethoscope pressed to an erupting volcano. Crimson overheat lights flared across all three control panels. A section of hull plating buckled and rent, admitting torrents of red-hot sludge. Then…

"Simulation abort," came a gentle, computerized voice. "Catastrophic failure of session one has been noted and logged. Repeat, simulation abort."

It was Paul Metcalfe who muttered, as the lights came up and their swamped mock drill machine righted itself,

"Bite me. Start session two."

16


	46. 46: Fear Tactics

Many thanks, Tikatu, Mitzy and Bee. =) The chapters are getting longer again, but at least this one's properly edited first time through. Edited...

**46: Fear Tactics**

Call it a feint, if you would, or else yet another sharp pin lancing a doll made of hatred and envy and dead men's commands. One more, vicious stab at Jeff Tracy.

Even as their Lima venture swung into action, the cell put forth a new strand. A small team was dispatched to remote Nova Scotia, where Tracy Aerospace maintained a hangar and runway for hypersonic, prototype air-to-space fighter craft. There was a barracks, as well, where Scott and Virgil Tracy (or, more rarely, John) occasionally stayed whilst flying these prototype planes.

Not at the moment, though. On this particular night, no one was in the dun cement building but a few company pilots, office personnel, engineers and managers. Regular folk, who no doubt wondered how they'd wound up in the far northern Maritimes (considering that none of them liked to fish or cared much for bears).

The attack arrived quietly, unlooked-for. A strike team set out from an ocean-going hovercraft, putting to sea in a dark rubber raft with quietly puttering engines. Dressed in masks and dark clothing, they were as hard to spot as the blacked-out, idling ship.

Seas were moderate, though cold and stinging when blown back into the strike-team's faces. Not even their masks helped much, then. They were well paid mercenaries, however; quite good at this sort of thing. No one complained.

Like its crew, the raft was sturdy and weather-proof; the device it carried, secure. Moreover, everyone aboard knew his own job and everyone else's; knew exactly how long each step of the plan would require. They were far readier than their Tracy Aerospace marks, who could not have known what was coming.

In darkness and spindrift, not speaking, the strike-team arced away from their patiently waiting hovercraft. Half a mile of rocky, tree-lined coast was skirted unseen, until the glow of the TA testing facility… its chain-link fence, misty spotlights and bored, smoking guards… came into view. That's when the tools were pulled out, along with guns and their silencers.

After that, not really sure what would happen (nor much caring), they positioned and triggered the cell's strange device.

XXX

_Tracy Island-_

"Gordon! Hey, wait up!" Alan called out, breaking into almost a run as he raced to catch up with his red-haired and glowering brother.

He'd paused to hook another few bagels, and in the meantime, the swimmer had headed off through the hall door, alone. Which, like, _never_ happened. They were practically inseparable, okay? Best friends through everything; even chicks. Even high school.

Gordon stood just beyond the threshold, shifting position like a guy who was really impatient, or badly needed to pee. He clearly wasn't going to make things easy for Alan by replying, so the would-be race driver was forced to start off.

Standing there in a lushly carpeted hallway, the blond Tracy took a deep breath and said,

"Okay, here goes… I'm sorry, man. I shouldn't have said that about a sex-tape. Not in front of Mom, anyways… Women only think that kind of thing's funny when it's about someone they don't like. Plus it was early. Her joke-shield was down."

Gordon seemed to hesitate, as though he was trying to think what to say. At once encouraged and impatient, Alan blurted,

"Look, if it'll make you feel any better, haul off and bust me one in the gut. Punch the crap out of me! Then… after I wake up in the infirmary… we can go play pool and have a beer, or something. C'mon," he urged, half-grinning, half-grimacing as he pointed to his own bagel-and-cream-cheese-stuffed belly, "you know you want to."

Actually, Gordon just wanted to stay angry. Wanted to clutch resentment around him like a brittle and splintering coat. But it was hard to be mad while Alan was pulling such mock-worried faces. Also, he knew better.

"The last time I hit you…" Gordon began, a little sullenly,

"…Virge got you in a full-nelson while I knuckle-rubbed the top of your head for, like, ten minutes," Alan finished for him, chuckling evilly. "It was the noogie of the decade. I'm surprised you don't have a bald spot. What'd you hit me for, anyway?"

Funny thing was, neither one of them could seem to recall.

"I dunno… something you said, most likely. It's been awhile, but the mouth of doom never stops."

They looked at each other for a long, wary moment (not quite on level, because Alan was taller). Then the blond, next-to-youngest Tracy extended a tentative hand, saying,

"Friends?"

Gordon sighed and then extended his own hand. They bumped fists, and the swimmer said, managing a smile even,

"Sure… why not? Friends, again."

They kind of embraced, after that, in a quick, back-slapping, guy-hug sort of way.

"You gonna write that letter to Captain Dos Santos?" Alan asked him, when they'd separated; partly to change the subject, partly to bridge them both past all of that awkward emotion.

Gordon nodded, but there was a glint of stubbornness in his narrowed and changeable eyes.

"Absolutely. I'm not going to give her the brush-off, though. I have to find out if something's going on… if she needs my help."

"Dad said to let the professionals…"

"I know, I know… and I'll stand back while Interpol handles most things, believe me. I'm just not going to let her be in this alone. Not a big risk, to sit with John and dad while they monitor the situation, is it? They might need me to talk to her, in case she's not sure who to trust."

Alan tried very hard to consider the matter, but he had other, more immediate things on his mind. Clasping both hands to the top of his head, he said,

"You want to help with a vital negotiation, Dude, come with me to face Mom! I've still got _her_ to say sorry to, and she's not likely to settle for just an apology. She'll have my butt!"

"Serves you right," muttered Gordon, in not at all the proper brotherly spirit. "You were a jerk. But… I'll see what I can do to soften Mom up, if you can wait till I've written Dos Santos."

"Wait...? As in, _later_, when she's had even more chance to stew? You're kidding me, right?"

Alan took Gordon's broad shoulders and tried to shake him, but it was like grabbing hold of a concrete bridge pylon. Virgil could have moved him, or Scott. John, with the right leverage… but Alan had no luck at all. So,

"Fine, Lord-high-loser-of-all-eternity. How fast can you type?" he fretted.

Gordon never got the chance to answer that question, because all at once an alert sounded; high and shrill as wails for the fallen.

XXX

_Midworld-_

Because time was short and the matter most urgent, Gawain rode in haste from Meretown to Falkirk, taking with him just Britte, Chester and Allat. From necessity he traveled in full, gleaming panoply; crossed shield hung at his neck and sword in full view, that anything foolish enough to attack him might consider the odds and seek mischief elsewhere. Even Britte had been properly kitted out, in the stark black and white of a squire.

Even so, trouble followed. They were tracked across the snowy, boulder-strewn moors; hunted by savage trolls, vicious frost-wyrms and the small, grinning shadows which ooze from cracks in cold stone and from stoven-in barrows.

All were good experience, allowing Sir Gawain to train his squire in the arts of attack and defense and of Magick-wielding. She learnt well, but worried that her slower pace and Chester's youth would delay the knight.

"Britt," he said (for so he'd decided to call her), "If I am meant to arrive before th' death of Lord Morcar, I shall. If not, then… no amount of hurry will shift one thread of fate's weavin'. Had I an amulet, I'd use it. Were magick not fading in power, I'd attempt a broad transport spell."

They did not halt often, nor for long, but even such brief idle moments as were not claimed by sleep, he devoted to training; this time in runes and letters.

_That _part of her education, Britte did not enjoy. She would have practiced high and low sword-cuts, shield-work and parries all the night through in preference to watching as her lord wrote squiggles on rock with the burnt end of a stick.

No diagram was this, nor did it climb in her head and roost there, as the House, Bridge and Altar had. This was a new sort of work, and she did not excel at it. On the other hand, crouching down beside Gawain on ground cleared of snow, with good bread and cheese in her belly, was no trial at all.

Not with Chester busily scratching the marks with his right fore-hoof on a patch frozen soil. Blanchard grazed nearby, lifting his head from time to time to snuff at what moved like mist beyond Gawain's ward circle and Allat's draped coils. He was being a young bronze dragon now, was Allat, very fearsome and flexible to look at… except for his wide and friendly blue eyes.

"Now, attend," said the knight, drawing Britte's wandering gaze back to the ashen dark marks he'd made upon stone. Though an indifferent scholar himself, Gawain possessed quite a fine memory. "This is a bit of the knowing of water. Its ways and behaviours."

The marks, he told her, read:

_'Water is the eddying stream and broad geyser and the land of fish. A snaking dragon with wet-gleaming scales._

_Ice is very cold and immeasurably slippery, a trial to the hooves of horses and centaurs. It glistens as clear as glass and most like to gems. It is a floor wrought by the frost, fair to look upon._

_Hail is the whitest of grain; it is whirled from the vault of Heaven and is tossed about by gusts of wind and then it melts into water._

_The ocean seems interminable to men, if they venture onto its rolling back and the waves of the sea terrify them, and the courser of the deep heed not its bridle.'_

Britte's dark eyes grew thoughtful at this. For, of course, she'd heard of the ocean (though never seen it).

"Sir, have you oft taken ship?"

"More than is seemly," he admitted, quite forgetting the letters and learning. Swallowing a bit of his dinner, the knight took some ale from the common flask and then said, in low tones, "I c'n swim, as you might recall."

Not a common skill among mortals, who generally feared entering such a shifting and unstable element.

"Were you taught by nixies and sprites, Sir? That's how the folk of my village say that one learns."

He shook his head. At most, she thought, he had three-and-twenty summers, and seemed sometimes younger than that. The beardlessness only added to this impression.

"Here is th' truth, and no lie," Gawain told her. "I went hawking once, with m' brother, Pier. He'd a new falcon, and was eager t' try her at th' hunt, f'r she was a fine, fierce creature. Took her out too soon, I think, as she got away from him and became tangled by th' jesses in th' upper branches of a tree. Oak, it was, with a slow, sleepy nymph. At any rate, bein' smallest, I must climb after th' bird, onto a branch that dipped an' swayed above th' waters of a pond. Got her loose, but fell in th' process and Pier went off after his bird. _I…"_ he said ruefully, "Learnt myself t' swim. The waters did not drag like the grave, as some say… they bore me upward, instead, and I was able t' thrash back t' shore."

Britte scowled, poking at the globe of bluish-white mage light which served them for a fire.

"He _left_ you?" she asked, outraged.

"Aye. Matter of numbers, Lass. He'd more than sufficient kinsmen, but only a single prized falcon."

"Would you have done the same?" Britte demanded, shoving at Chester's piebald hoof when one of his scratched words threatened to end on her new cloak. The colt, at least, was an avid scholar.

"Most likely not; but in a household so large, bein' young as I was, allies were important. Pier had… _has_… no need f'r such. Since then," he added, cleaning and putting away his belt-knife, "I've swum when th' need arose, and again when it did not. Now… if we're t' pass through th' barrens and forest in safety tomorrow, sleep we must, beginning with you."

Britte had rather stay up talking, but the knight wouldn't hear of it. So, she slept first, wrapped in her cloak and a new, uncomfortably heavy mail-shirt (which had been gilded to prevent rust). The hard, frozen ground did not invite slumber, so she rested herself against Allat's warm, flexing coils. The words marked with ashes…

_'They venture onto its broad, rolling back and the waves of the sea terrify them, and the courser of the deep heed not its bridle.'_

…were among the last things she glimpsed that night, along with the upright, pacing shadow of Gawain. She woke to a hand at her shoulder, gently shaking, and a voice which said,

"Up y' get, Britt. All's well, and dawn approaches."

Indeed it did… as a rumor, she thought; still some hours distant and faint to the eye. The ground cracked and her breath misted as Britte accepted Gawain's hand up. He was tired, clearly, and fain would lie down.

"Sir, will you sleep?" she asked, after stretching and taking a swift gulp of ale.

"Aye… but just till th' sun rises. We must be off again, then. Keep watch, Lass, an' wake me at need."

With that, he laid his weapons, helmet and shield by. Then, wrapping himself in his cloak and using Blanchard's fine saddle for a pillow, Gawain plunged into sleep as once he'd dropped into a pond.

She watched _him_ more than she did their glimmering ward stones and circle. Dangerous but that Allat was present, and in a mood to play fanciful riddle games. These she could and did learn, leaving letters and such rot to Chester.

Blanchard's leavings had to be magicked away; a task she knew well how to do. Chester's as well, for his civilized reticence extended only to buildings. Otherwise, he dropped it or sprayed where he stood.

This done, she took a notion to conjure their breakfast, a far harder task. But creation and getting are always thornier than mere destruction, as Gawain had told her. He'd begun lessoning her in simple acts of magery and healing, so she thought she might try.

The third generation results were spread out before him when Britte shook her lord back to wakefulness.

"Sir, the Sun shows his face, and so must you. See, here is breakfast."

Half a loaf of warm bread she'd spelled to them, at great, draining cost. A harvesters' drink of mingled raspberry vinegar, water and honey, as well. Allat provided a thin, starveling hare, hardly fit for the skewer. Cooked it, too, with a brief spurt of flame. The shape changer hadn't liked her drink, or Chester, either, but the knight did.

Despite simple fare and little sleep, he pronounced himself well refreshed, and even thanked her; something only Kel and Laney had ever done for such homely services. And had Gawain asked her to fall on her gleaming new sword or fetch flames from the sea below Midworld, she'd have done so. Twice over.

They set off soon afterward; Sir Gawain dousing the wards, Britte dispelling and collecting their stones. The circle of protection seemed smaller each night, she'd noticed, as though such magicks were growing more difficult to forge and maintain.

She helped him to don helmet, shield and sword-belt, then held Blanchard's bridle as Gawain leapt into the saddle. (Perhaps showing off, perhaps merely trying to keep warm.)

Then, once she'd handed her lord his spear, Britte threw a blanket across Chester and mounted up. The colt was very proud of the evening's writing, though, and made Britte admire it all before he'd agree to follow in Blanchard's frost-scattering wake. Allat spiralled high in the air, ablaze with all the sunset glory and screech of a firebird.

Otherwise, they rode in a cold, barren land, seemingly made up of stone and ice and bruise-coloured shadows. The sun was no more than brighter patch in the low-sagging gloom overhead. It cast little light and less warmth.

Spring should have been nearing, she thought, yet long icicles glittered sharp as ever, while the wind-sprites stung at their flesh like swarming bees. Such streams and brooks as they passed were frozen, and Gawain had to first break the ice so that Blanchard and Chester might drink. (The latter with Britte's assistance, for the tall bay colt could not bend his neck to the ground like a horse.)

Onward they rode, nearing Falkirk; and Britte asked for a tale of Tamar on the way. Gawain obliged her, for it felt good to speak of warm, sunny lands. He described a gazelle hunt with the Sultan's bold son, Kemahl. They'd used cheetahs instead of hounds, he told her and they'd hunted with great, curving bows.

"An odd way t' go about th' business," he informed his squire, "but enjoyable, f'r all that. The cheetahs wore collars of gold, and would come t' one's hand like a dog. Fearful biters, though."

Again, very much, she wanted to see this strange country; covered in sand and dotted with islands of water and green. Of course, nearly anything would have seemed preferable to bleak, barren snow and dagger-wind that bent the steeds' heads, taking the breath from one's lungs. Higher and higher it rose, whistling with such singular fury that Allat was soon forced to fly above the grey clouds. Not even the tortured bare woods around Falkirk could blunt or divert it.

The village seemed no more than a collection of icy hummocks when knight and squire rode through. No one else moved there, nor did kine or fowl blatter and honk. The castle proper was another matter, being somewhat sheltered by pale spirits which flowed like water along its battlements.

It was a squire's place to ride first and announce her lord, whose crossed shield and pennon revealed nothing at all but the Order he belonged to. Yet, she hesitated.

"Sir… Are they…?"

"Ghosts; harmless t' all those who do not bring war. Believe it or not, as you will, but these are my friends, encountered in a place I was never intended t' leave."

"A land of spirits?" Britte hazarded, nerving herself to start forward.

"Aye. Fallen in battle and condemned to a place of waiting. Milady released them all, once she came t' herself at the ice wall… but it seems that some few have chosen t' stay. If they fright you, then I will ride first."

He'd removed his helmet by this time; once again pushing off the chain mail hood and untying the thongs of his linen cap, so as to be better recognized. In such stark surroundings, Gawain's red hair blazed out like a torch.

"What shall I say?" she asked, nervously. Her lips were as wind-dried and cracked as her voice.

He made certain that his scarlet-and-white pennon was properly tied below the head of his spear, and then gave the weapon to Chester, instructing the centaur to hold it well upright. Next, turning to Britte, Gawain said,

"Hail th' keep, and then announce y'rself and y'r lord. Beseech safe entry and assure all within that our business is peaceful."

"Aye, Sir," Britte responded, feeling that she'd broken her fast upon snow and rock, so heavy and cold did her entrails now seem. Yet, a squire she was, and determined to be a right good one.

With her knees, she nudged Chester forward. Like Britte, he wore sort of an open, round helmet; more of a leather and steel cap than anything else. He'd also been provided with a gilded breastplate, splendid to look at. It buckled and strapped in the back, pinching his mane, but giving Britte something quite firm to hold onto.

"Go… now, Britt?" he asked in a ringing whinny, causing Blanchard to swivel a frost-crusted ear.

"Now, Chet. Pennon high… good man. Not over-fast. We mustn't seem threatening."

So she rode forward, somehow aware that behind her, Gawain was already working up magicks; defending them in ways more direct than a helmet or breastplate could manage.

The great stone walls, with towers and icy-white roofs beyond, loomed very high and dismal. Cracks in the mortar seemed welded shut by long, slick runnels of dark ice. A roiling mist of spirits flickered and puddled in many places upon it, sometimes taking the shape of strangely-armed warriors. Above all this, Lord Morcar's device of the sword and raven fluttered and snapped in the wind.

Britte rode up to the frozen, spiked moat, as near as she'd get till the castle folk lowered their drawbridge. Then, clearing her throat, she shouted,

"Worthies and lords, greeting! I am Britt of the Northwood, and I announce the arrival of Sir Gawain of Espan, Knight of the Cross and Lot's son, of Orkney. He seeks entry, in peace, if… if that's all right?"

Britte winced at the sound of her own reedy and questioning voice. She was supposed to seem bold and manly! A helmeted head poked between the crenellations soon afterward, though. At this distance, Britte could not see the man's expression, but his voice held a note of quavering hope as he shouted back,

"Sir Gawain is most welcome, I am bidden t' say. Aye, and all of his people, beside. Come within and take shelter, Milords!"

Then, with a rattle of chains and a creaking of timbers, the drawbridge was lowered at last. It slanted down in a cloud of shattering ice crystals, thudding with a deep-chested **BOOM** into a stone socket on Britte's side of the moat.

She could not help turning halfway round to smile and wave eagerly at Gawain, who lifted a hand in response. Confused by the leg pressure, Chester started to turn, causing the spear and pennon to dip. Britte caught at it, though; bringing her friend and steed back into line.

Some moments later, she and Gawain rode over the bridge, side by side, their mounts' hooves rattling like hail on the iron-bound timbers. Beneath the raised, ice-fanged portcullis they went… and that was the last Britte knew of Falkirk, for something took hold of her then; body and mind.


	47. 47: DeathTrap

Thanks for reviewing, Tikatu and Bee. Will edit, faster than quick. Edited; PS- Side note: Bee expressed interest in the "Rune Speller" bit from last chapter. It's real, believe it or not, a fragment of very old, Germanic proverb (with a few additions from me) meant to teach a student his or her Runic "letters". Deserves, after nearly a thousand years, to have some of the dust blown off, no? =)

**47: Death-Trap**

_Tracy Island, just before dawn of an already worrisome day-_

Jeff, Scott, John and Virgil had not left the office in the first place. Gordon and Alan came hurtling back from the hallway, looking intent and alert as a pair of young cats.

Kyrano, deciding that stronger coffee and heartier breakfast foods were in order, nodded to himself as he left the room. He had his shortcuts, because the mansion had been constructed as the English managed such things; with servants' passages and hidden doorways throughout. In one such bare hallway, having shut the door after him, Kyrano could hardly detect that offensive noise.

Not so the six (soon to be eight) Tracys still in Jeff's office. For them, the high, keening siren continued to pulse and stab. At least, until John summoned a holographic midair control-pad and cycled the sound way, _way_ down.

Scott was already punching up details, using a regular, meat-space keyboard.

"Wow," he said, looking almost as surprised as he was concerned. "Uh… looks like there's been a really powerful, incredibly localized earthquake in Nova Scotia."

His glance flicked across John's face and Virgil's to Jeff.

"Epicenter's our testing facility, over there."

"How long ago?" Jeff asked very grimly, coming forward to look over his eldest son's shoulder.

"Almost ten minutes. No casualty reports, yet… the area's pretty remote… but I'm not getting any response over the office phone line. John?"

Scott turned to look at his blond younger brother, who was still busy with that floating, glow-y keypad and screen thing. John gave them a swift and frustrated head-shake. Then he went back to his fierce, rapid typing and sub-vocalization, trying like h3ll to find out what had happened.

Virgil was on his feet already and headed for the hidden door to Thunderbird 2's launch silo. As if drawn by a powerful magnet, Gordon and Alan followed him.

"Dad…?" Virgil prodded. "Two minutes, we're in the air. You can tell us what to do from there, but those are our people, and the clock's ticking. Launch?"

Jeff nodded, just as Lucinda came rushing in; robe loose and untied over her bright pink nightgown, wide-eyed Ricky cradled in her arms. She was too out of breath to speak, which meant that Jeff could say,

"Launch, Son. Take the Mole and a portable triage station. I want you circling overhead at 75,000 feet. After that, not another move until you hear from me, Scott or… or your mother. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir. We're gone."

And so they were, almost. Lucy's breathless condition meant that Alan (praising luck, fate, God… whoever wanted to step up and take credit) could dart to his mother, kiss her flushed cheek and blurt,

"Sorry for the stupid joke, Mom. Gotta blast. See ya! You, too, Sprout. Hold the fort."

Ruffling Rick's spiky dark hair with a careless hand, Alan then turned and sprinted through the hangar access door after Virgil and Gordon. Meanwhile, Jeff pivoted to face his weary oldest son, saying,

"Scott… I know that you must be exhausted, after your desk shift, but…"

"I got a lot of sleep before coming in to spell Alan, Dad… I'm fine. You want me to head over in 1? Set up Mobile Command?"

Jeff nodded again. Indicating John, he said,

"That's affirm, Son. Your brother and I… and, um… your mother, of course, can handle things here. Go, and Godspeed."

They shook hands with genuine (if deeply hidden) emotion. Then Scott left the office, using yet another hangar access door; this one leading to the tall, silver spire of Thunderbird 1. Bit of a process, because he had to get dressed on the run, but the pilot made it to his launch silo in less than five minutes. No small thing, considering how far from the house his Bird denned.

The red-lit, vibrating cockpit was in vertical configuration just then, his gimbal-mounted seat facing upward. It would rotate ninety degrees when he straightened to level flight, but for now was oriented rocket-style. John's voice came over the comm the instant Scott got himself settled and strapped.

_"Hey, Scott."_

"Hey, Little Brother. What's the plan?"

A momentary crackle, as John's attention diverted, and then,

_"Shadowbot's live. You're covered. Local flight plans and commercial activity indicate a launch window in ten minutes from… __mark__. Suggest you light her up and get ready to go."_

Scott nodded absently, his hands flying from one switch and control to the next in a well-practiced blur. Pre-flighting his aircraft was second nature, by now; he could have managed the thing in his sleep, and (judging from the state of his pillows and sheets some mornings) often did.

At his command and John's confirmation, tall metal gantries folded away from the silvery rocket-plane, looking like the limbs of a praying mantis. Hoses and wires detached. Maintenance bots went scurrying off to their recharge bays, the swift tap of their jointed legs making the sound of a lit and bouncing fire-cracker string.

Overhead, pool two drained all in a sudden, wild rush. Then it slid grandly aside, letting pale morning light into Scott's silo. Beneath him, he could feel Thunderbird 1's powerful engines ramping up; gathering themselves for a fast, screaming launch.

The time was already set and he was strapped in. All Scott had to do now was hang on and enjoy the ride. In Thunderbird 2, meanwhile, Virgil was running through much the same process, except that his Bird would launch like a plane, not a rocket.

Heading up to join his older brother, Gordon noticed Alan's attitude of almost fist-pumping excitement. Bit out of place, under the circumstances.

"What's with you?" he demanded suspiciously, pausing a moment.

"What's with…? Dude, don't you get it?" Alan replied, swinging himself into one of the crew cabin seats. "I'm off the hook! I snuck in my apology while mom couldn't answer, and now that I'm officially in the path of danger, she _can't_ be mad at me. It's, like, and unwritten _law_, or something."

Right. Clearly, Alan still had some 'up' left to grow… but it wasn't Gordon's job to age his exuberant blond brother like some kind of runny pale cheese. Yeah. Good one. Like he could teach anything at all, no matter how attentive his audience. Swimming, maybe…

"She might forgive," he told Alan, resuming forward motion, "but ten-to-one she keeps bringing it up on you. Females don't forget. _Ever."_

"Heh!" Alan scoffed, too cool to be worried. Propping his booted feet on the seat before him, he said, "_That,_ Bro-chacho, is because all you know about women is how to get in their pants. Some of us are a little more evolved."

Uh-huh. Up front, Virgil had popped in a stick of gum and was chewing away madly whilst ripping though preflight procedures at double speed. Gordon mumbled a sort-of explanation for his own lateness, and then vaulted into the seat beside Virgil's.

Mistake, that; he wasn't well enough for such athletic goings-on… but d-mned if he meant to let Virgil find out.

The cockpit was alive with blinking pale lights, shrill beeps, hums and a solid, on-going vibration. Beneath it all, rattling pilot and crew to their back teeth, was the rumble of her huge, wakened engines. Thunderbird 2 was impressive in repose. In action, she became a cyclonic and howling force of nature. Even just co-piloting, Gordon felt swept by her might, size and energy.

"Ready?" Asked Virgil, snapping his gum.

A more poetic person could have come up with a better way to agree than just grunting,

"Yeah. Hit it."

…But Gordon was not that person. He could rarely find just the right words to express all he felt. Not even with TinTin. No… _especially_ with TinTin.

He could hear John's transmitted voice over the comm, as their astronaut brother coordinated with Scott and Virgil, both. Which reminded him…

Remotely accessing his personal computer, Gordon pulled up the email queue. Message from Royce… no time to read it… only to dash off a quick, non-hung-out-to-dry response for Captain Dos Santos.

"Gonna need you on those steering rockets soon, Kiddo," interrupted Virgil's mild voice.

"Got it," Gordon answered, awkwardly accessing the proper instrument screen with his right hand, whilst typing a letter with the left.

_'Dear Marina Thnx 4 wrtng. Am nt sure wot U mean. More details? Hve let my fthr knw that U found a thret to me. He may b in touch. Plz wrt bk, lt me knw wots hppng. Yr frnd, G.'_

Not the best, perhaps, but he _was_ in a hurry. Back at the house, while their father called corporate headquarters and the Canadian Red Cross, John opened yet another midair window. This one used a variant of 1337 rather than standard ASCII characters, and displayed hex coding instead of images.

Far more secure, given that there were others present. (Dad, Mom… his baby brother.) Through this new window, John began firing lines of inquiry at Penelope Ward. Correction. _Creighton-_Ward. Something… There was a hard, tight knot in his stomach about her… and attraction, as well. Sort of the way people were said to feel about vampires. Poison that sparkled and tasted good or Russian roulette with three filled chambers. Question was… what card did he want to turn up for Lady Penelope? Ignore, or advance?

While debating all this, John gave the go for both launches. Got Dad's nod of assent, first, and made sure that the ocean and sky were clear of observers. Seriously, one strayed fishing boat could absolutely ruin their day, requiring all sorts of verbal and computer gymnastics to convince people that what they'd seen was an atmospheric phenomenon.

There were reports coming out of Nova Scotia, already. Faster for John than for Jeff, because the hacker used fewer legitimate channels; stealing most of his intel through backdoors he'd long ago eased into place. Scott had been right.

Earthquake. Magnitude 8.7, but incredibly localized. The forest and sea-cliff looked like a bomb had gone off, with the test runway in scattered shards and their hangar/ barracks complex pancaked down to about ten, fifteen feet in overall height. Must've been a fairly serious tidal wave generated, as well, reported a local heli-rescue squad, because the remnants of a ship were beginning to wash up on nearby beaches.

Harder to explain… more worrisome… were what the pilot described as "gunshot victims".

"Okay," John muttered aloud. "That's bad. Um… Dad?"

"He's occupied, Sweetie," said Lucinda, placing a warm hand on John's back. "What's happened that you'd like some advice on?"

Well… H3ll. Why not?

"Mom, you may have to excuse some bluntness, but the situation's not good. There's a local search and rescue helijet on site, but they can't find a safe place to put down. The cliff's pretty much gone, from what their cameras and spotlights are showing. And, uh… there may be a gunman, out there."

"Gunman?" Her vivid blue eyes widened briefly. Then she got herself under better control. "The helijet crew has been shot at?"

"No, Ma'am. More like some of the guards are lying outside, with probable gunshot wounds, and… great. There's some evidence that the fence was cut, too. In any case, there's more to this than unexplained tectonic activity."

"The core has been producing some awfully strange effects," Lucy hedged, bouncing small, grabby Rick on her hip to keep him quiet.

"Yeah. Far as I've heard, though, this is the first time it's pulled a d-mn gun. _Sorry._ I'm sorry, Mom. Didn't mean to…"

"Sweetheart," she said, growing suddenly formal. "I don't approve of your language, but I'm not such a fool as to stop you every five minutes for a lecture. You're a man, now, and your brothers may be headed into another trap like the Brazil situation. Curse if you have to. Just help see them all through this in one piece. I'll update your father."

Then she kissed him and left, telling Ricky,

"That does _not_ go for you, Young Man. You will watch your mouth, or… or you won't be allowed to speak with TinTin, next time she calls home."

John turned back to the main comm screen, already opening lines to both cockpits. Though not a terribly imaginative man, he could _feel_ the odds shifting; feel probability winding itself up like a tight, coiled spring.

xxx

_Midworld-_

What happened was sudden and awful; made all the worse because there was nothing at all he could say without betraying her. They'd no sooner crossed the iron-bound drawbridge and entered Falkirk Castle than something came over Britte.

A sort of glamourie, it was, making her look like the Lady Anelle. Worse: the happy Anelle he'd known as pageboy and squire, not Faerie's wan, harried queen.

Once past the dim, torch-lit gatehouse, castle folk and villagers appeared from everywhere; materializing from the many dozens of huts and lean-tos which filled the wide, snowy bailey. Some of them… the greybeards and auld goodwives, at least… remembered Anelle.

Others were perhaps drawn along by the lure of newcomers. Gawain simply froze, able to sense the illusion, but unsure how to deal with it. A guard clad in Morcar's red, black and gold stepped up to take hold of Blanchard's bridle. His workmate was less certain what to do about nervous, trembling Chester.

"Da…?" begged the colt, in a wavering rumble that rose from two chests. His nostrils had widened and his eyes were rolling.

"Steady, Lad. I c'n see past it."

For, of course, no matter what the eye said, a centaur's nose would not be confused. He _saw_ Anelle, his adopted mum. Yet he scented Britte, and gave every sign of wanting to buck like a mule with a wolf on its back… or one with a newly-arrived and shape-shifted thrush on its shoulder.

"Stay with Blanchard an' Allat, till I've sorted things."

"Yes, Da. Soon back…?"

"Quick as I can, Chet. My oath on't."

Gawain swung down from his creaking saddle, not using the block someone had thoughtfully brought forward. No need. Among the castle folk were many whose faces he recalled; strong and fair in their youth, withered in age.

He greeted them, accepting palsied hand clasps and trembling embraces. Saw that, aye, here indeed was young Lark, with a child of her own, now, and its sib on the way. Fancy that.

Some plucked at his cloak because they'd a frightful misery in their back, or a loose, shifting tooth. Minor things, of the sort he often encountered when passing through villages too small to support a decent herbalist or witch.

Troublesome now, when he needed to reach his possessed squire. For it _was_ a possession, had to be… though he could sense nothing at all demonic. In great haste, Gawain healed... nodded... smiled, then healed a bit more and kept moving; pushing through the crowded villagers as well and politely as possible.

'Anelle', meanwhile, had dismounted with the aid of a tall, sumptuously-clad young man. Gareth? Grown to manhood, now?

A dark-haired young lordling, at any rate, and accustomed to be obeyed. At his sharp, whip-crack voice, the castellans withdrew and fell silent. He spoke Anelle fair, embracing and calling her "sister" before turning to Gawain, who might have been carved from cold marble.

"Sir Gawain," he said, extending a ringed hand. Morcar's ring, the knight saw. "Welcome. All of Falkirk rejoices to see you returned in such splendid array… and with my long-vanished sister, at that! Such adventures you must have to tell us. Clever notion, by the by, disguising her as a young lad."

Chester curveted away from Gareth and 'Anelle', sidling to Blanchard for protection. The armoured destrier stamped once, and then draped his head and long neck over the colt's left shoulder. Allat was forced to perch elsewhere, though not so far off that he couldn't keep watch. None of the human-folk noticed.

Properly, Gawain ought to have taken Gareth's hand and bowed low, or knelt. Proper, at least, if the fellow was now lord of Falkirk. Rusty words jerked forth, surely from someone half-dead of blood loss.

"Y'r father…?"

Gareth's slim, mobile face changed and his hand dropped. Not long ago, he'd been a young lad, following Gawain about like a puppy. Now…

"My father lies near to death, Gawain. My mother and her priests attend him constantly, for each breath seems less than the one before, and likely to be his last. Come, both of you. I'll escort you within."

So saying, Gareth turned, causing his fur-lined cloak to whip grandly 'round in a circle. Practiced gesture, that. Gawain would have wound up tripping over the thing… which was a stupid, woodly thought at a time like this, with Anelle's mock-face gazing into his own.

"Gawain," she whispered, very softly. "Please?"

Somehow, he succeeded in extending a mailed arm for her to take; heart by turns shrinking to a cold lump and then swelling to fill all his chest. A trick… some spell… no more. She was _not_ here with him, and he was not being dragged backward through hell.

Most of the tapestry-swathed great hall passed by in a blur of colour and noise. Some things stood out; the high seats on their canopied dais, a window of bright, patterned glass, firelight gleaming from vessels and fixtures of gold… The hounds Morcar had always liked having about him, though Lady Kait would fret over their stench and droppings.

What else there might be made no impression at all. Especially those items and folk on his right, for Gawain steadfastly refused to turn his head in Anelle's direction. Then someone else appeared, with a glad, nearly-hysterical cry of…

"Anelle! My darling! My girl!"

Lady Kait, leaning upon serving maids to make her slow, limping way down the main staircase. She extended thin arms, draped in wine-velvet sleeves too heavy for such a frail old woman.

"Anelle!"

"Mum…? _Mummy!"_

The false, illusory thing broke away from Gawain to race up the stairs. After a moment, he followed; head spinning light, steps clanking leaden.

Kait and Anelle were locked in a tight embrace, rocking slowly from side to side; both weeping in hot, jagged sobs and gasping out bits of explanation.

"…ran off to help Gawain, and then a portal in the cave opened, but I never meant to…"

"…we've missed you so terribly, Anelle. And now your poor father…"

"…trapped in Faerie, alone but for Chester and Gawain; and Mother, I love him so much…!"

"…tried every herb and simple and prayer we know of, but he grows ever weaker. Come, Anelle. He will be so happy to see you, dearest Love."

By this time, the knight's slow step had brought him to the landing upon which the two women embraced and wept. He halted then, at an utter, pole-axed loss. Gareth stood a bit lower than that, tapping slim fingers against his own folded arms.

That which had seized Britte and looked like Anelle turned to face Gawain, extending a hand to draw the knight closer. Frozen clear through, he did not resist. Lady Kait, her knee-length tresses gone silver, now, put her hands to his face and looked at him.

He'd been her page. Had slept on a pallet at the foot of her bed and learnt his runes and letters from her. This time, unreservedly, Gawain dropped to one knee.

"Milady," he said, "peace and good health t' you. I am… most sorry t' hear of what's happened."

Smiling a bit, she indicated that he should rise.

"Darling Gawain, you've brought back my girl… the bird of my heart… and your own dear self. Already, matters are bettering. Rise, dear one, and walk with us."

She shooed off her maids, taking Gawain's arm and Anelle's, instead. Gareth followed; feeling, perhaps, a bit overlooked and ill-used. There were two landings and a hall to traverse, in order to reach Morcar's chamber, but the knight couldn't have given good account of himself on the way. He walked, more or less ably. Two women clung to him, one shrunken with age, the other possessed.

Morcar's bed chamber was dim and overly warm. While Anelle flew to the dying lord's bedside, Gawain flung open the drapes and cracked a wood shutter, just to let in some air.

There was a fire banked down to mere coals in a room-wide stone hearth, with bundled strong herbs smoldering upon it. Tansy and wormwood, or such-like. Gawain banished the curled, smoking weeds with a savagely cut, midair sigil. Then, with a word, he freshened and brightened the fire. Clean it burnt, and blue-white.

Only then, once the family had been allowed time and such privacy as a turned back might give them, did he come to the sickbed. Lady Kait sat upon one side, by her withered and dying lord. Anelle had climbed up on the other. There were priests and magicians, as well, backed into corners and muttering.

The bed stood high off the floor on legs of carved wood, cunningly worked to resemble a griffin's. It was brocade-hung and quite magnificent, entirely dwarfing the figure within. White-haired and frail as a wisp, this wreck of a man raised a twisted pale hand to the knight.

"Milord," Gawain responded, coming forward. No choice but Anelle's side of the bed, as that's where the lifted hand was.

Kait's grey eyes were wide and hopeful. Anelle's green ones, much the same. Both evidently expected a great work of healing… yet no mere paladin could reverse time. Taking that icy hand, Gawain bent low, saying,

"I am here, Sir. What is your will?"

Morcar's left eye drooped. That side of his face and body were cold and still as a corpse. What remained of his life and awareness seemed trapped on the right. Anelle, he noticed distractedly, had begun weeping again.

Here was the man to whom he'd been squire. The man he'd armed, served, hunted and fought alongside. The lord who'd knighted him.

The cardinal points and ley lines had vanished, and magick itself seemed to be draining like wine from a cracked vessel, but surely enough remained to wake one side of a withered old body. Gawain stripped a gauntlet to touch Morcar's papery forehead.

"Sir, if it please you t' do so," he said, "take back such strength as time will allow."

He sketched a bright sigil upon the old man's head, calling within himself for the blessing and aid of his Order's stern God. And power flared; white-hot and crackling-fierce. Branching like lightning, it seared and rebuilt drooping muscle and cold flesh, making Morcar whole again, if no younger.

The revived lord wanted ale, after that, and then a bit of sweetened porridge. Gawain wanted the chance to sit down. Preferably, without armour. After being shown such marked favor, he needed time with his Deity, as well… but wasn't likely to receive it.

"Gawain," croaked Morcar, sitting up rather better, now. "Come."

Up the knight got from the carven stone bench he'd temporarily claimed.

"Milord?"

Morcar had Anelle's hand clasped in one of his own. With the other, he reached for the knight's.

"I'm dying, Gawain, yet still lord in this place."

Taking the knight's bare hand, he drew it close and then laid it onto Anelle's.

"I've had one-and-twenty years to think on my own foolishness, and to bitterly miss my child. You loved her then. Do you, now?"

"I…" Anelle was watching, with eyes like an orphaned fawn's. Kait, as well. "Sir, I have never loved, nor ever shall love, anyone else half so dearly."

Lord Morcar's haughty, aquiline face softened. He smiled.

"Then, take her to wife, if she'll have you. Yon stands an over-fed priest, with nothing to do for his room and board but chant prayers. Let us put him to useful service, for once."

Words which, before, he'd have cut off a hand to hear. Now… Gawain had no desire whatever to wed his own possessed squire. Yet, what could he say? What could he do but try to feign joy and eagerness? He was caught in a storm, and there was no escape.

The ceremony was brief. Anelle's veil, simply her brother's long, fur-lined cloak. Words of blessing were intoned while the couple's hands were bound together upon the hilt of Gawain's sword. Bound with golden thread which was then spelled away to some place where nothing and no one could sever or break it. Vows were spoken and witnessed and blessed for eternity. Somehow, he even managed to kiss her.

Ordinarily, there would have been feasting and revelry afterward. The peasants would have been fed for a se'nnight at Morcar's expense. Instead, the newlywed pair was toasted with honey-wine and then rapidly locked in the castle's second best bed chamber.

Two things occurred to Gawain as the door boomed shut, closing out laughter and ribald songs. First, if this was not Anelle, but some mischievous shade, he might better find a way to squeeze through yon arrow-slit and dash himself to bits on the courtyard, below.

Second, if this _was_ some spirit or ghost of Anelle… seizing the form of Britte in order to speak and act in Midworld… how could he face her?

He did not have on his armour any longer, but had been dressed in the finest clothing that Falkirk could offer. Made collapsing into a seat much less noisy and painful. Gawain put his head in hands. Could still hear her moving about the chamber, though… coming to kneel at his feet, actually.

"Gawain, love…"

He exploded, launching himself out of the chair like a stone ballista missile. But for those listening intently beyond the wood door, he'd have roared as Morcar used to.

"Away!" he growled tensely, backing toward that attractive arrow-slit. "Whatever you are, begone with you!"

Her shoulders shook, then, and she gave vent to a hopeless and devastated small sound.

"I… can explain. Please…"

Gawain stopped backing, but made no other move. Anelle, even the shade of her, was wrenchingly beautiful. His true and great love, the woman of his life. Except that she seemed to be dead, and he very much wished to be.

"Explain what?" Gawain managed, at last.

She said, reaching out just a bit,

"Love, there was nothing else I could do! Had rather they tear out my heart than let them stop yours. My spells did not work well enough. You were still partly mortal. Even with…" she blushed, smiling softly. "Even with our one time together. He'd have killed you himself, or left you to perish of cold and thirst in prison." She hugged herself, because he still hadn't moved or spoken.

"I made a promise, and… and kept it, for a time. But once you were safe, sent back to Midworld, I broke my vow and the vessel which held me, to follow you."

Anelle bit her lip.

"In your path, that night, were three children, only just dead of exhaustion and wounds. What is power for, if not to be used? They were not so long dead that their spirits could not be drawn back… with a sacrifice. It is my breath which fills their lungs and my force which quickens them. Britte is a wonderful child, Gawain. She loves you, and always shall, because I do. But when… when you entered Falkirk, and I sensed my mum and da…"

"You came forth," he whispered stonily. Found another chair. Place was rife with them, really…

"Enough to see and comfort my parents," Anelle agreed, sinking to the floor at his side in a great, soft welter of velvet and silk. "But to gather myself and leave her entirely would end this child whose form I inhabit, and the brother and sister, too."

Her hand reached once more for his. This time, Gawain did not flinch aside. After a moment, he drew her onto his lap, shut his eyes and held tight. What else could he do?


	48. Chapter 48

Thanks Tikatu, Sam and Bee (and Mitzy, too, for the *other* story). Your reviews are genuinely helpful. Newly edited. Hmm... the site appears to have eaten chapters 48 & 49. Will have to reupload. Working on 50 today. Sorry for any confusion.

**48: Chaos and Love**

The cell's leaders were very well pleased. Their device had functioned, destroying a Tracy Aerospace testing facility and almost certainly luring International Rescue, the flip-side of Jeff Tracy's solid gold coin.

There had been loss of life, of course; agents and mercenaries who would have to be replaced. But such were the fortunes of war. Worth it, in any case, to shake a bit more of their enemy's cover.

Still better, and more ironic, was the fact that their earthquake-device had been developed from the technology of Dr. Sanderson. _She_ meant to employ massive EM jolts to revitalize the Earth's slowing core. The cell used a smaller, more controlled, such blast to waken long-hidden faults in the crust. Deployed at the right time… for instance, when that pitiful core machine began drilling… many earthquakes could be triggered whose devastation would be blamed on the government and Tracy Aerospace. After all, had Jeff's corporation not helped to design the great drill? Did not its success or failure rest largely on _him?_

Together with events unfolding in Lima and Europe, this plot would come near to destroying the man; their dead master's long-time foe and tormentor. In short, all was proceeding according to plan.

XXX

_Manhattan, where one's worth is reckoned on how big a foreign bank account, and how little free time, one has-_

Brains was becoming quite frustrated. The drilling machine, which the press insisted on calling a "Drill Monster", had serious flaws. Unsurprising, given that the device was no more than badly adapted TA technology.

But all the ways in which Brains might have chinked those flaws would transform the drill into a larger, more powerful clone of IR's Mole; something he had to avoid at all cost. Yet… _Myrna_ was slated to be on the core-repair mission, and she was fast becoming the most important thing in his life.

Up till now, he'd had his work, and a few stable friendships, wrapped in the fog of a hidden identity. Now he'd met someone that fitted just right, filling gaps he hadn't known existed. Just talking to Dr. Sanderson… taking her hand and brushing a stray lock of hair from her serious face… made him near drunkenly happy.

She had to be safeguarded, without giving away the buried connection between Tracy Aerospace and International Rescue. And there lay the hard, stubborn crux of his problem.

Sighing, Brains sat back in his slightly unstable rolling chair. One wheel would not rotate at all while the others tended to jam, giving this chair, when propelled, a certain quixotic independence. Troublesome, but the engineer refused to ask for another; considering this "chair test" a battle of wills. Man vs. Furniture, winner take all.

At any rate, he pushed back in one direction, and his seat chose to move at a tangent, as though it had been constructed of alternate matter with negative mass. One more point for the chair.

Before him stood a depressingly grey metal desk with composite wood-veneer top. A far, downward slide from the conspicuous luxury of Tracy Island. Hackenbacker would never have believed himself the sort to get addicted to Jeff's preferred level of material comfort. But it seemed as if that sort of thing _did_ become habit-forming, a tendency he was going to have to watch.

On the cheap metal desk sat a complex and powerful processing unit. A flat-screen, with ergonomic keyboard and neural-net; possessed of what could only be called "intuition". It did not simply sit there and wait to be programmed. It thought ahead, anticipating needs and just about partnering with its slow human user.

WSA equipment, obviously, because the world government disliked smart and self-motivated electronics. Too risky. Who was to say how their data might be altered, or where it would go?

Knowing this, Brains was careful to keep any hint of International Rescue's design secrets off of the machine, but his quirks and thought processes left impressions of their own. Like footprints, or unsettled air after someone had quietly left through a door. By harvesting enough such impressions, someone could make very good guesses about how a designer might think and what he was likely to build.

So much for the delicate net strung before him. Behind lay a narrow, double-paned window which overlooked the building's square courtyard and odd, coded fountain. Supposedly, its designer had included an uncrackable cipher in the placement of mosaic tiles, water jets and glass bricks, but if so, Brains hadn't found it. He had other things on his mind.

His office window was dark grey and streaked with waver-y runnels. Bits of hail and fat raindrops tapped at the glass now and then, sounding like a hesitant woodpecker. In the distance, thunder muttered and growled; plotting action it had not yet committed to. Occasionally, too, the lights flickered.

Brains leaned forward in his chair; first saving the data (again) and then revising his plans for something that had to work perfectly, yet could not be the Mole. For Myrna's sake and for Jeff's, _somehow_, he had to think through this.

XXX

_Tracy Island, in the dimmed, busy office at 6:12 AM-_

Jeff had been juggling phone calls; dealing with Interpol as well as corporate headquarters and the Canadian Red Cross. One thing had become very clear: he would have to leave the shelter of his personal island once more, and be seen with his hand at the helm of Tracy Aerospace.

Then came another call, as Jeff alternately glanced at the wall-screen news reports, argued with Director Beck and attempted to grasp what his wife had to say. The priority line, it was, from his office in New York City.

"Hold please, Director. I'm switching to another call. Back in a minute." Then, phone awkwardly covered and held well away, "Lucy, I have faith in your judgment and John's. You've got the desk. Just keep me posted."

Nodding, Lucinda rose on full-stretch tiptoe to kiss his cheek, managing in the process to transfer small Ricky. (Her arms were getting tired and her robe-front was covered in half-chewed bagel crumbs, or she wouldn't have done it.) Jeff accepted the boy, switching phone lines to field the incoming call. Albert Jenkins, it turned out to be, sounding… concerned.

_"Jeff, old man,"_ said his corporate second, in a strongly-marked Martha's Vineyard drawl. The connection flickered and crackled, as though it were storming out there.

"Al, what's going on, your end?"

_"Nothing but the usual parade of fresh hells, dear fellow: politics, intrigue, natural disaster and stock crashes. Life, in short. But, er…"_

"Yes? Not to rush you, Al, but things are a little hectic at the moment, so unless there's a pressing reason for your call…?"

_"Quite. Sorry and all that, Jeffery. I shall come directly to the point. The earthquake at our Canadian facility may… Might tend to engender a certain response."_

There was a short, rough-breathing pause; as though Jenkins (normally the most proudly detached of men) were scraping up nerve.

_"Right. It would be ill-advised, I believe, for any large and __unauthorized__ equipment to appear at the disaster site. Employing such machinery might lead to dots being connected between the core mission, Tracy Aerospace and, er… other organizations. All I have to say, old man… except that there's been a certain amount of pressure, at this end."_

Unauthorized equipment…? The Mole, Jeff realized, sitting abruptly and signaling Lucy to take back their son. Jenkins was hinting about International Rescue and the Mole. Also, that their enemies were trying to lasso him.

"Understood, Al. Thank you. Give my regards to Carolyn."

_"Right-o. Back to plugging leaks and bandaging damaged stock, then, old man. I hope that we can expect you at Christmas…?"_

"Of course, Al. Take care."

_"And yourself, Jeffery. Hugs to Lucinda and the scamp. My best to the boys. Must dash."_

There was a prolonged flare of probable lightning on that end, and then the line went dead, except for the whispering echoes of distant calls and other folks' troubles. He rang off.

"John!"

"Sir?" his blond son looked over, poised and wary amid floating view screens and evolving crises.

"The mole has got to be deployed from a distance, well away from potential eye-witnesses. It can't surface completely, either. Otherwise, considering how often that core-mission drill machine's been in the news and our clear connection with it, through Brains…"

John grew very still, again, saying,

"They'll put two and two right together, linking IR with Tracy Aerospace. Sh*t. That was Jenkins, I take it?"

"Exactly. We've been maneuvered into a trap, Son, and it's going to take every bit of ingenuity we've got, to avoid being caught."

John folded both arms across his tee-shirted chest; head lowered, brows knitted.

"Okay… Yeah," he said, after thinking a bit. "There's a couple other places 2 can set down, Dad, but they're fairly distant. It'll add… let's see… fifteen, twenty minutes to the Mole's travel time. That acceptable? Considering the likely state of any survivors?"

"I don't see that we have any other choice, John, unless you can come up with a way to boost her speed in mid-rescue."

"Or… if we're willing to go public," ashen-blonde Lucy spoke up, just as Kyrano entered the room with a large, covered tray. "Think about it, Jeff," she urged. "What has secrecy gotten you except constant ulcers and misery? And imagine the public relations surge, if the link between Tracy Aerospace and IR was not just announced, but embraced."

Lucinda paused meaningfully, accepting a morsel from Kyrano's tray with a murmured,

"Thank you," and "No, Richard! Not two at a time! Breakfast quiches are meant to be savored, not gobbled!"

But of course, little boys didn't know that. All Ricky saw was a kid-sized egg-and-sausage pie. His favorite.

Meanwhile, Jeff's head swam with all kinds of odd fish. Go public? Reveal all, and potentially de-fang the Hood's scheming henchmen? Or, more likely, sink what remained of his company's trade value?

"I'm… going to have to think about that one, Lu. It's not a decision I can make on the spot. The potential consequences are too tough to predict at the moment. Why don't you…" Jeff wracked his brain, meanwhile taking an urgent call from his Interpol contact. "Why don't you research the possible impact of this reveal-all scenario? I appreciate the input, Lu… I just… I don't know."

None of them did.

XXX

_Thunderbird 1, already nearly on site-_

"Divert? Why? I'm practically there, John."

_"Yeah. So's whoever caused all this, probably. Dad got a call from corporate… one of the black-book names… hinting that this might be some kind of exposure set-up. On top of that, there's evidence that the facility's been raided."_

"What kind of evidence?" Scott demanded, pressed into the nylon seat straps by the banking rush of his fast silver Bird. Outside, ocean and sky were jet black, banded with shifting aurorae.

_"A couple of dead guards, killed by apparent gunshot wounds, not falling debris. Also, what looks like a deliberate hole in the fence, sea-side. The pilot's having a hard time telling, because his platform's unstable and there's a lot of dust in the spotlight beam. He's running low on fuel, but Halifax has their entire d*mn fleet on the way, so the region's about to be popular."_

"Someone deliberately set out to lure us?" Scott suggested, feeling his stomach clench.

_"Not sure, but the situation stinks like a gym-locker, all the way from here. Advise extreme caution. Now, divert to 46 N, 61.03W, Scott, and watch yourself. There might be bears."_

"Well," sighed the pilot, punching in a new heading, "that'd be about the only thing that _hasn't _gone wrong, yet."

XXX

_France, L'Ecole Technologique de Paris-_

When in France, TinTin found herself speaking and thinking in almost exclusive French. A relief, vraiment, after so much time among Anglophones.

Nor was the pure, silken language all she enjoyed after such the long exile. TinTin was also near tipsy from sheer happiness; alight with the city's elegant grace. Not merely the Tower, but a profusion of parks and gardens, of bronze statues and vast, spreading chestnut trees in shocking white flower; cobbled streets slick with rain, buildings of soft pastel and ecru, tall cathedrals and kiosks… all filled her heart and her soul.

Only, it must be said, she very much missed Gordon and small, loving Richard. Facts which helped to explain what befell them all, next. It was midday, between classes, an afternoon fresh from heavy rains and renewed by the chirping of sparrows. She carried with her a chic Hermes parasol (after all, John's note and check had included the words "Have fun"), for the news warned quite often of sunburn and cancer.

Other students of L'Ecole Techno hurried this way and that across a lawn of deep green, peppered somewhat with dead grasses and bare spots. All around them towered buildings of warm, golden limestone, ornate as wedding cakes. TinTin, who had just dined at the student union on bread, chocolate and strong coffee with hazelnut, was on her way to a class of advanced hydrodynamics.

Then her phone sounded, and so the girl brought it forth; both to silence its chimes and to glimpse who had called. Texted, rather. She had a delayed message from Gordon. Smiling softly, TinTin slowed her walk, ducking her head so that her blushing face was curtained by silky black hair. Eagerly, she retrieved the text message, only to discover that it was meant for Marina Dos Santos… that a harried Gordon had quite accidentally keyed "send all", transmitting his email to TinTin, Royce Fellows, Coach Fox of the US Men's Swim Team, and Alan. Everyone, in short, on his close contacts list.

An understandable occurrence, of no import at all… except for the nature of the message.

_'Dear Marina, thnx 4 wrtng. Am nt sure wot U mean. More details? Have let my fthr know that U found a thrt to me. He may b in touch. Pls wrt bk, let me knw wots hppng. Yr friend, G_

TinTin's mouth fell open. There was a threat? Further danger? And, worse… Dos Santos, who'd been saved from death by International Rescue, had somehow learned to contact Gordon Tracy at his public email address?

Her heart tightened. Darting for the spangled shade of a large oak tree, the girl considered what was best to do next. This way and that, her thoughts twisted, coming back always to one crucial matter: the motive of Captain Dos Santos. Why had she written to Gordon? What was the threat that he spoke of?

Bon. There _was_ a way that she might discover these things for herself… A way that her uncle had made loathsome and her father strictly forbade. TinTin could put forth her thoughts and seek this Marina Dos Santos, to learn what lay in her heart and her mind. Then, possiblement, to approach Gordon, Scott or Monsieur Tracy.

TinTin caught her soft lower lip between perfect teeth, causing it to flush a sudden, jeweled red. For Gordon, she decided; not so much in defiance of Papa, as in love for the man whose ring she'd put on. After all, would he not do as much for _her_?

There existed no time and no space, she told herself; no division that mind and fierce will could not pierce. _Marina Dos Santos, _the girl thought, recalling all that she knew of the rescued pilot. Powerful, but untutored, TinTin Kyrano soon found what she sought. And trouble came afterward.

All at once, the girl was no longer in France, beneath a heavy-limbed oak tree, bruised-purple clouds moving off to the west. She was in cold, dry Peru, seated at an outdoor café table. Far from alone, she sensed; for there were many eyes and gun muzzles trained on Dos Santos, waiting for whomever might come forth to meet her.

A trap, the girl realized, staring through Marina's drug-blurred vision at a white cup with _'Hostel Benedicto'_ printed on it in red. Outdoors… but where? What else could she see? Struggling for focus, TinTin glimpsed a wide stone terrace and her own dark, wind-whipped hair. _Memories_. Surely Marina recalled what had led her to contact Gordon? But the effort produced only further bewilderment. TinTin's thoughts, mingling with those of Dos Santos, became terribly sluggish. Again, where…? How far in the future?

It was full, brilliant day in a chilly plaza. The air was thinner than young men's promises, cruel as unmonitored guards. Café au lait and an untouched meal lay before her. Confused by her imprisonment in this bleary, sedated body, TinTin tried to sever their link and win free. In physical terms, the numbed form of Dos Santos lurched away from the table and stood, weaving about like one who'd been struck.

Immediately, she heard loud shouts of warning. In her muddle of French, Malaysian, English and Portuguese, TinTin did not understand the rough words, except for one: _Interpol._

Several indistinct figures ran at her, and shots like horsewhips were fired. The cup shattered in exquisite, fragmented detail, freeing a storm-cloud of coffee. Then a hammer descended; hot-smashing-fierce. The amber-tiled terrace rushed upward, spinning and tilting with deliberate malice.

In Paris, beneath a wide-spreading tree, TinTin reeled for support. Her hands closed upon the oak's seamed and rain-wetted trunk. Almost, she fell. Her head and heart pounded, and her breath was a ragged, sharp saw. But TinTin did _not_ fall. Instead, setting her jaw, the girl brought one hand to the slender wrist of the other, triggering her diamond-faced wrist comm.

XXX

_Midworld, Castle Falkirk, alone in the second-best b__ed chamber-_

Anelle could not have done anything of a carnal nature, regardless; for the room was her mum's. Clearly, Gawain was even less keen, for he'd set her aside to rise up and pace the floor. At least, he did so until she pointed out that said floor was wooden, and his stalking about would be quite audible to those below.

"How?" the knight snapped, indicating their hall door, which yet resounded with poundings and song. "They'd need ears like a lynx t' hear anythin' whatever, above all of _that."_

Anelle blushed, lowering the head of her borrowed child-body.

"They await proof, Love."

He looked away.

"Not likely t' get any, are they? Unless…"

Possessed of a sudden idea, he strode to the bed and threw back the gaily-embroidered green coverlet, exposing a bleached linen sheet. Next drawing his belt-knife, Gawain prepared to slash his own palm. In less than a heart-beat, though, Anelle was there. Seizing his knife-hand, she whispered,

"There are priests in the hall with some little magick. They will be able to ken that the blood is a man's, Gawain."

So, unwillingly and very carefully, he nicked Anelle's left hand at the fleshy base of her thumb, using no more of the blade than he must. The girl… possessed squire and fled queen of Faerie… did not flinch. She'd experienced worse than mere pin-pricks. But her new husband and lord took care, anyhow; bringing her hand just above the white bed sheets and squeezing it gently.

Drops fell in profusion, which he then quickly smeared, before healing her very-small wound. Taking up the stained bed sheet, he made as if to go at once to their door, but again, Anelle stopped him.

"My love… You are fully dressed, yet, and… ought there to be some sort of _noise_ first? As… when we… do you remember if…?"

Gawain reddened and shrugged.

"Couldn't say, really. Bit preoccupied at th' time, wasn't I?"

Still... she made sense. So he sat himself down on their bed and began to bounce until the ropes and mattress creaked like a ship's rigging.

"Right," he announced, a few moments later, "That ought t' please them. Cry out, if you would, and then climb in. No need t' undress, so long as th' cover's well up at y'r chin."

She complied, only just loudly enough to be heard. He drew the embroidered coverlet over her, once Anelle had scooted onto their bed. Very dear he was... this husband she'd no right to touch. Not in a child's borrowed form. He kissed her forehead, though, and that was nearly worth all.

"Wait here, and see if y' can't manage a few modest blushes. I'm off t' prove th' job done and th' maiden deflowered."

"Gawain," she called softly, when he started once more for that wretched and clamouring door. "Your garments."

"Oh, aye."

He mussed himself thoroughly, then, bringing genuine pink to the cheeks of his bride.

"Love… they shall think I've attacked you."

…which brought the first real smile she'd had from him, yet.

"So you did, once. Call this a bit of delayed justice."

"Bastard," Anelle murmured, stifling a much-needed laugh.

But his disarray, the red sheet and own clear, blushing merriment were well received by the mob at their door. Drunken servants and house-carls went dashing off at once, banging spoons upon pots or axes on shields, and crying the welcome news to all who would listen. In more dignified fashion (but still smiling broadly) so did Falkirk's priests. The deed was done. The marriage, as they thought, consummated. And peace fell, at last.

Had their doings been real, this would have been the moment for further exploration and genuine tenderness, but Gawain waxed shy and uncertain. He would not lie down near Anelle. There were pelts and linens in a carved chest by the wall, and with them, he made a nest for himself on the floor. Not the first time he'd slept there, by any means, or all that uncomfortable. He'd endured worse, and his wife had a warm, luxurious bed. But it was quite a long night for the pair, even so.

In the morning, once breakfast had been brought up and eaten (in firelight and wintery sunshine, with frost-misted air hissing in through the shutter) Gawain was called away to attend Morcar. Lady Kait came in just a bit afterward, anxious to speak with her daughter. Shooing the chattering servants, Kait shut the door and secured it.

Then, taking a deep breath, she brought forth a small flask and went to her daughter's side.

"Anelle, dearest…" the old woman began hesitantly, accepting her girl's help to sit down. "I don't know… that is, I am sure that Gawain would… Well… Your father, when that time came for us, did his best to be gentle, yet a maiden I was… and so there was pain. But my mum had prepared something for me, which she said would bring ease. Herbs and simple magick, mostly, but it will make accustoming oneself to the needs of a husband less… fearful."

Anelle sank down on a nearby chair and took her mother's nervously plucking soft hands.

"Oh, mum…." She whispered, beginning to tremble. As both the child Britte and an unwilling queen to a horrid usurper, she'd far worse experience than Kait could imagine.

"_Darling_…! Is… was it terribly difficult? Shall I have Morcar speak with him? Sometimes, Love, men do not realize…"

Anelle came halfway out of her seat to embrace her velvet-clad mother.

"No, Mum. Gawain is very kind and patient. All is well with us, truly. I just… thank you for caring to bring me this, Mum. I… I wanted so much to see and speak with you, all those months I was gone."

Had cried for her mother, actually; in secret, where no one could see her and scoff. She was a fairy, not mortal. Yet, in Anelle's mind, Lady Kait and Lord Morcar had created, raised and loved her. They were her parents, and this was her home.

"I love you, Mum, and everything's better, now. I've come back, so you may sit at your ease by the fire, embroidering…"

"Baby things," her mother smiled happily. "For soon we'll have children about. Mercy! And me with nothing prepared! We shall have to engage a wet-nurse, of course. That is, if you'd rather. I did so, myself, when you and Gareth were small, but perhaps folk feel different, today. This is a new, modern age, after all."

Somehow, Anelle managed to retain the ghost of a crooked smile. Children, she thought wildly? _How_?


	49. Chapter 49

Mitzy, Bee and Tikatu, once again, your imput is greatly valued. This is a fairly ragged first effort, but edits will come very soon. Edited! Re-uploading (actually just replacing chapter, since it is still there under the chapters/content heading).

**49: Knife's Edge**

_Thunderbird 2, in fast, level flight-_

Virgil, too, had received word to divert. But as he had only just launched, achieved altitude and gotten the go-ahead, it wasn't much hassle to alter course. He headed north and east, making an arc for the far northern Maritimes.

Oceans, coastlines and borders flashed past, below, as Thunderbird 2 chased dawn into daylight, roaring on through them to sunset and nightfall; all in the course of an hour and fifteen minutes. She was incredibly stable in straight, level flight; much easier to handle than Thunderbird1, which Scott described as like "trying to stay on top of a rolling, hard rubber ball." Nothing but constant shifts and corrections.

Well, he'd take his big girl over that, and no questions asked… but there was no doubt that life got easier with a copilot. Beside him in the rumbling cockpit, Gordon looked fairly preoccupied. All that business with Dos Santos, maybe, the pilot reasoned. Didn't say anything, though. This wasn't the time, and his brother would bring it up, himself, or he wouldn't.

Instead, they just flew; exchanging comm chatter with Island Base and with Scott, shredding time zones like a paper victory banner held up by screaming cheerleaders. (Yeah… sometimes, just a little... he missed football. but not much, and not often.)

The target landing site was a rocky meadow surrounded by tall, shadowed evergreens. Just enough room to put down safely, with a little bit more for the Mole. Virgil circled the spot twice, shaking his head and muttering foulness. He'd have made a few unkind remarks about John's ancestry, except that they shared the same parents.

"Quarter impeller," he told Gordon. "Ride those steering rockets like a loose girlfriend, Kiddo, 'cause we got tooth-skin clearance on either side."

Gordon nodded, hazel eyes on his instruments rather than the view screen. Switch-over from horizontal, airplane-style movement to vertical descent was an intense collaborative effort. Virgil slowed their airspeed and began to shed altitude, while Gordon gradually ramped up the impellers and gimbaled 2's rockets so that most of their thrust was directed straight downward.

Engine noise and vibration changed noticeably, but it was a good sound; deep, slow and throaty. Virgil kept an eye on their altimeter as Gordon eased back on those rockets, bringing them carefully earthward.

By the time they'd dropped low enough to be seen, the rockets had cut off, entirely. 2 descended to her small, rocky perch on impellers, silent as a barn owl. Trees rushed up like a wind-tossed dark ocean, surrounding an island of flowering scrub. They startled a deer, but not any hikers or radar posts. Under the circumstances, Virgil was quite proud of their swift, grinding touch-down (which sounded like a canoe grating across a sand bar… if the canoe was the size of an aircraft carrier).

She bobbed a bit, settling amid treetops and snatches of color-shot sky. Then Virgil began shutting down flight systems, putting the engines and rockets in safe mode as Gordon initiated pod release. Again… two people, less work.

A set of telescoping legs rattled down from thunderbird 2's creaking and popping fuselage. Their impact with the stony ground could be felt in the cockpit and crew-cabin. Virgil took over at that point, having called in to Mobile Command.

Using sensors located on the lifting-legs' feet, Virgil made sure that they were stable and properly set. It was possible to re-position a leg, but time consuming. Better than having one of the d*mn things slip off a rock and collapse, though; a nightmare scenario he'd so far experienced only in simulation. In this case, way, _way_ better safe than sorry.

"Looks like we got a good touch-down. Release the pod."

"Copy that," Gordon acknowledged, hitting a flurry of keys. Huge clamps unlocked with a series of booming thuds, freeing the mighty green cargolifter from her titanic pod. Automatically, Gordon started to rise, but Virgil shook his head, no.

"Nuh-uh. Not this time, Kiddo. You're still in recovery, remember? Dr. Evil 'll put me in the bed right next to yours, if I let anything happen to you."

Unstrapping to rise, the muscular pilot said,

"You stay home and mind the Bird. I'll take the Mole, and Alan."

Gordon didn't say anything, though it felt like he'd just been cut from a victorious swim team. Realizing that there wasn't any real way to soften such a blow, Virgil didn't try. He simply shifted his weight and said,

"Wait till we're in and set, before you lift her off the pod, Kiddo. Stay in touch with Scott, and don't forget to lower a comm antenna for me. Reception gets pretty spotty down there, otherwise. Got all that?"

Heard it, yes. On some level, understood it, even… but still felt like he'd just had his guts raked out with a pick-ax. He managed to nod, even so, getting a brief shoulder clasp and rough shake from Virgil.

Gordon deliberately didn't think for awhile after that. He just took care of business; waiting for the all-clear before raising Thunderbird 2's cockpit and tail assembly off of her giant green pod. Inputting a certain command, he crested the dark treetops with pneumatic smoothness, glimpsing the first wash of dawn over a jagged ridgeline. Riding an elevator through the aurora-lit forest primeval.

This high up, wind played h3ll with the aircraft's stability; whistling past her slim legs and gutted, swaying fuselage. Beneath him, the pod's door clanged open, for all the world like an enormous, pierced-metal drawbridge.

The Mole came snarling and grumbling forth moments later, about the same time that Gordon noticed (and hurriedly sent) a pending email message. Thought he'd taken care of that, already, but...

On great, clanking treads, the Mole lumbered some 25 meters away from Thunderbird 2. As far as she could get, given their cramped and hemmed-in position.

Virgil stopped short before a nearly solid palisade of old-growth giants and their web-work of entangling roots. Nice. Beside him, Alan was trying out a series of attitudes; one moment cool and professional (like Scott), the next sort of balls-to-the-wall ready (like Gordon). But mostly just excited; committed to not screwing up. Virgil ignored all the shifts. Sooner or later, the kid would figure out who he was. Until then, all that his family could do was be patient.

"Hang on," he told Alan, once they'd got as far from 2 as space would allow. "Here's where it feels like we're touring a missile silo at blast-off time."

Alan nodded with all the sharp, nervous energy of a ferret. Started to smile, too, but then caught himself. At Virgil's direction, the Mole's undercarriage began to tilt, lifting her aft-end into the air at a fifty-degree slant. They were flung into their seat straps, and the scenery shifted from tree trunks to scrubby ground cover before Virgil shut and locked the main view screen. From this point on, communication would involve headsets and microphones.

"Mobile Command, from the Mole. I'm in position and ready to roll. Got a heading for me, Scott?"

"_Mole, Mobile Command. That's affirm. It's a little indirect, but saves time by avoiding dolomite outcrops and a flooded cavern. Inputting, now."_

"FAB," Virgil commented, being delicate within earshot of Lucy.

Once their course was entered, the pilot fired up his craft's giant, sharp-pointed drill. The Mole howled to life as that knife-edged rock shredder began to spin. Virgil had been right; the results felt loud enough to crack and drain Alan's skull.

Another touch to the instrument panel freed the Mole from her base. She slid, impacted the ground and began to burrow, nosing her way downward through a pinging, rattling, succession of alpine greenery, woody roots, scattered stones and then bedrock. Progress slowed.

A tidal wave of lubricant and pulverized stone flowed past them, causing the Mole's hull to breathe and flex like a rhythmically squeezed plastic bottle. Virgil started humming a bluegrass tune, 'Foggy Mountain Breakdown', unconsciously beating time on the steering yoke. Gave him something to do besides worry and drive.

Less soothed by music, Alan clutched at his armrests. He'd traveled in the Mole before, of course, but never up front, or for more than five minutes. Definitely not with lots of mid-course direction changes. That it could swerve at all was surprising; a John-cobbled workaround, Alan felt sure. She didn't corner on rails, or anything, but did manage to avoid dense rock and sudden caverns (except when the latter were going their way).

Anyhow, they were under the disaster site and angling upward when Scott called in.

"_Mole, from Mobile Command. I show you about three minutes from arrival. Does that sound right?"_

"Mobile Command, Mole. Make it 3.21 minutes from… mark. But, yeah… you were close. We good to head in?"

Scott delayed answer, letting a squirming fistful of seconds drop loose and vanish before he came back with,

"_Good to go, Mole. I'm in touch with the Red Cross and local rescue teams. Their ground radar confirms a large, stale air-pocket between what must have been the basement and a slab of upper-floor decking. Position's hard to describe, but John's programmed a 3-D holo-map for you. Come up shallow and easy, once you've stabilized the area with the force field projector. We can't let a __pebble__ slip, Virge. Much less start a landslide."_

"Confirmed survivors?" Virgil demanded, as Alan punched up and displayed the holo-map.

"_Roger that. Heat-sensors and tapping have located up to six definites. Maybe seven, if one guy's just fallen unconscious. In any case, time's running out. Be careful down there, Virge. We have no idea what's going on, or who might be waiting."_

"We got this, Scott," Virgil reassured his older brother, easing back on the throttle and drill speed.

John's holographic site-map floated before him in the dim, roaring cockpit, glowing pale green and displaying a necklace-like string of air pockets; some of them beaded with tiny red dots. The largest such pocket (their target) was oddly slanted and looked unstable as h3ll. Carefully, Virgil altered his screw-pitch and direction.

"Get that shield projector going, Al," he commanded. "Button down anything that looks like it has the potential to shift, and then start the O2 generator. Begin pumping just as soon as we've broken through."

"On it," Alan responded, after clearing his throat to chase away all the excitement-wavers. He'd been through this a million times in simulation. _Two_ million…!

The drill's noise and vibration changed as the Mole tore through a last bitter mouthful of bedrock and then reached something else; concrete and rubble with lots of sour, fouled air-space. His own ground-penetrating radar confirmed a bull's-eye. Beside him, in furious, bitten-lip concentration, Alan expanded their field generator; pinning inorganic substances like he'd glued them in place with electromagnetic cement. Next the O2 generator purred to life, pumping hope for survival along with a waft of breathable air.

"Let's go," Virgil told his blond younger brother, once the preliminaries were seen to. "We're gonna need the plasma-cutter, full protective gear, med kits and a couple of wreckage-snakes."

Not trusting himself to speak, Alan just nodded. Upstairs and away to the northwest, meanwhile, Gordon followed all this on the comm. Still not much thinking; just functioning hollow, on autopilot.

Oddly enough, about then the line to his personal email queue flashed. Oughtn't to have left it open whilst on duty, much less picked up, but… since he had nothing better to do at the moment… there was surely no harm in checking the message, right? Might be TinTin, or Captain Dos Santos.

No such luck. All he'd got was a text. From Royce Fellows, of all people, it read: _Helluva way 2 score w/ the lassies, mate. Can't U jst claim 2 b dying of rabies? Classier, trust me._

Then he got TinTin's email alert.

XXX

_Midworld, late morning-_

While Anelle soothed her mother, Gawain faced Morcar. His Lordship was dressed and sitting up, in a large and imposing wood chair whose cushions had been made sleek by the noble rumps of ten generations.

The old man dismissed his son and chief house-carls when Gawain walked into the room; bidding them be gone with a curt nod.

"Gawain," he said. "I would walk outside, for they tell me the weather has cleared, somewhat. Attend me."

"Aye, Milord," the knight agreed warily. He'd received some very hard, speculative looks from Gareth and the departing gentry. "Y'll be wantin' a cloak?"

The old man inclined his balding white head.

"And a staff, as well. Leaning on someone I've hided for stealing apples comes hard. Age, lad, is a thief of strength and dignity, both."

Gawain nodded respectfully, though the passage of time meant little to him at the moment. He didn't wish to encourage more talk of his childhood misdeeds. Rummaging through a tall wooden wardrobe with creaking bronze hinges, he came up with a fur-lined and hooded wool cloak. The staff hung above the fireplace, along with Morcar's sword-belt and blade. Gawain took down all three.

The old man smiled as the sword was brought to him.

"It has been quite some time," he remarked, when Gawain presented it. Forcing himself to a wobbly standing position, His Lordship said, "Arm me, lad."

The knight did so, fastening belt and sword about Morcar's sadly diminished waist. He could not have borne the weight of a hauberk, and his spurs were nowhere in sight, but wearing a sword again stiffened the old man's spine, well enough.

Together (Morcar balancing most of his weight between Gawain and the staff) they proceeded out of the chamber. Took a bit of doing, to arrive out-of-doors, for the old man was feeble, and paused very often to rest. The castle was quiet. Their shuffling footsteps and the thump-drag of Morcar's wood stave seemed terribly loud against echoing, time-polished wood.

Morcar had retrieved and put on his gold signet ring, and from pride kept his struggle to walk fiercely silent. Gawain moved only when he did, serving as a patient, slow crutch. Didn't say anything, either, because Morcar would surely have backhanded any offer of sympathy.

Outside, once through an upper door of spiked and spelled ironwood, they blinked at the diamond-bright sunshine and razor-sharp air. The combination should have been crippling to a weary old invalid, but instead, Morcar breathed deep.

"Forward," he commanded, indicating that Gawain was to escort him around the castle's ice-slickened battlements.

A nerve-wracking trip, it was. The pair made a snail's progress; followed by a constant boil of phantoms, saluted by well-wrapped-up tower guards. On the one side, lay blinding snow-fields, distant mountains, a frozen river and bare, creaking forest. Some distance to the other side (the walls were forty feet thick, and well packed with rubble) lay all the hustle and scurry of the upper bailey; with its cook-fires, livestock, commerce and shouts.

The Sword and Raven snapped overhead like a challenge, ice-sprites twining its pole for the sheer, screeching play of it. Their walk was a long one, observed with great interest from the castle's window and arrow-slits. Around the lower and middle bailey, past the great gatehouse and barbican. Through four separate watch towers, the postern and gallery, back to Falkirk proper.

Through all of this, Morcar did not speak but to answer the hails of his men. Gawain thought him surely done-in by the time they'd returned to the main keep, but no; nothing for it but His Lordship must start round, again. And again, after that; his breath rasping hard, his grey eyes intent as a hawk's.

Once they'd completed their third circuit, Morcar signaled a halt beside the toothed crenellations of Falkirk's high wall.

"Wait," he commanded, raising a hand. Gawain waited. Moments later… once breath and thought had finally caught up with him… the old man said,

"Bretnoth, in Rees of Cymru…"

"The high king, Milord?"

"Aye. For the first time in two-score years, Rees summons its vassals. A messenger arrived yester-eve… _Messenger,_ on horseback, if you can imagine. No spells or amulets. At any rate… Falkirk is to ride south in force at the bidding of Bretnoth, reasons to be discussed upon arrival."

Despite the cold and the wind, Gawain resisted the urge to pull his own cloak tighter. He'd have had to move his right shoulder, possibly dislodging Morcar's thin hand.

"Were I younger," His Lordship continued, after a bit, "I should be pleased to ride forth, myself, at the head of a strong war-band. Were Gareth a man of the sword, he would ride in my stead."

_Ah_. Gawain began to catch the wind's drift, battle-smoke, and all. No bad thing, that. Not if it meant that he could slip from the castle with Anelle, their mounts and Allat. But Lord Morcar surprised him.

Patting the wall's icy grey stonework, the old man said,

"This is a mighty fortress, Gawain… and good land. When not locked in an endless d*mned winter, quite fertile. I inherited from my father, who received Falkirk from his uncle… before that it was all managed in the old way; lord to sister-son.

"I know every stone, Gawain. Grew to manhood and wedded here. Shed blood in great buckets for this place. I would see Falkirk in good hands before I pass on. _Your_ hands."

All at once, the knight understood those three circuits. A property-walk, repeated thrice for magickal force. No doubt backed by swinging censers and priestly chants in the chapel and keep.

"Sir, I…"

Morcar shifted his weight, displaying more pride than actual strength. Leaning hard on his staff, the old man took his hand from the stonework to seize Gawain's, and placed it where his own had just lain.

"With Kait's agreement, lad, I give you Falkirk. Honour my son's gaming debts, be good to my daughter and care for milady wife, for all the years that remain to her. The fortress and lands are yours… as is Bretnoth's command. An old man may do nothing more to arrange for the time of his passing… and for those whom he loves."

Morcar stopped talking, then; gazing out at the land he'd lived on and fought for. Not once had his voice dipped into the range of a question. Gawain was stunned nearly speechless. He was also become lord of Falkirk.

"Sir," he said, after a number of rattling heartbeats. "Be at ease. What y've ordered shall be done, and what has been dear t' you, shall be held just as closely by me."

Morcar shifted his gaze from the forest and river; his hard, bright eyes searching Gawain's wind-reddened face. Then, he smiled.

"Aye. I think I've always know that it would be, though once I battled that seeing. _Bloody hell, _but 'tis cold!"

He was about to order them inside when motion at the wood's edge caught both men's attention. Four figures emerged; instantly familiar to Gawain, at least.

Riding through the snow with graceful assurance, a cloaked elf led two lumbering orcs and a robed halfling scholar out of the forest. A twittering thrush swooped from the castle to meet them, wheeling and banking above the newcomers. Morcar tensed warily, but Gawain said,

"They are friends, Milord, of long and high standing. Not th' most obedient, however... Trust them t' follow, when bidden remain at the inn."

Morcar relaxed a bit.

"'Tis a good thing, to have extra men. Bretnoth needs swords, in a damme quick hurry."

"He shall have them, Milord," Gawain promised, mind racing to a point weeks ahead.

From Rees, it was a very short ride to the Steep Reach and under-realms… and thence to the dying roots of the World Tree. Better still, as his wedded wife, was Anelle not entitled to ride with her lord? No one could gainsay a lady's wish to visit the fabled city of Rees... and away from Falkirk, the possession would fade, freeing Britte while Gawain and his companions found a way to remedy matters.

Here, in a tidy parcel, was the answer to fervent prayer. Gawain helped the old man, his father-in-law, within; at the same time calling for the bridge to be lowered. He was bowed to, all the way to the gatehouse. Embraced and pounded, outside it.


	50. 50: Stretched Hope

Thanks, Bee, Sam and Tikatu. Short one, this time. Made some changes to chp 44 to put things back in correct numerical perspective. Phew! Thanks, Tikatu =)

**50: Stretched Hope**

_Nova Scotia, aboard a landed, half-mast Thunderbird 2-_

One small noise changed everything. The moment before, he'd felt as useless and abandoned in his giant, green perch as a petrel's chick, when father's been trapped in a snare and mother devoured at sea in one vast, sluicing, razor-edged bite. Then his wrist-comm went off at TinTin's frequency; starting Gordon from heavy despondency, back into crackling life.

The others must surely have heard it, as well, but Gordon simply reacted faster, sitting literally bolt-upright in his chair. Dawn was past, and morning spreading herself in shy, lapping waves, gilding the cockpit's interior. Beautiful… as were those sighing pine-tops and sparkling ridgeline… but Gordon ignored it all.

He fairly pounded the face of his wrist-comm, instead. Was instantly rewarded with an image of pale, shaken TinTin. Behind her, a shifting mass of green and gold looked like some sort of tree. Outside, then, and apparently safe; that was something.

"Got your alert, TinTin. Need help?"

_"Gordon! Dieu Merci! This Dos Santos you rescued and wrote of, she is made into bait for a trap!"_

The swimmer scowled. How many people had _got_ that wretched d*mn message, anyhow? He said,

"I don't think she means to hurt anyone, Angel. I think she's just being used."

The girl nodded an emphatic, hair-swinging _yes._

_"That is true, and… Gordon, I must tell you two things, and both frighten my heart. First…"_

TinTin took a deep breath in miniature, there on his wrist-comm's small screen.

"_I love you, for your boldness and dear, heedless ways. Life without love is a handful of dust. With it," _she gestured grandly, like a French girl, and smiled. _"All else can be faced... Wait, Gordon! There is more you must know, before you answer."_

Growing hesitant, her tiny image fidgeted with its chic, black clothing and hair.

_"My uncle… his power is also in others of my family, and has been for many generations. It is also in me, Gordon. I __saw__ what will happen to Captain Dos Santos, from within her own mind. She was… or shall be… drugged nearly insensible, in Peru. _

_"Though I did not mean to, I believe that I hurt her, Gordon. There was much shooting, and then I was hurled like a stone from her mind. Mon Coeur, you must __not__ enter this trap, but there will be great need for a doctor, I think, and…"_

She paused (to gauge his expression, he thought) and then forged courageously onward.

_"If Captain Dos Santos has indeed been harmed by my intrusion, it may be that I can repair the damage… if I am bought to her, that is."_

A succession of wild thoughts chased each other around his suddenly pounding head. The Hood's power? In TinTin? Dos Santos, set out for bait and possibly shot… or scraped hollow by the girl he loved?

Well… there was aspirin for headaches, and solutions for problems, if only you were quick off the starting block. Gordon had never been one to give up.

"You said:_will be_… as in, _'hasn't happened yet'_. So, all of this can still be avoided, right? It's just a vision, or something?"

TinTin's gaze dropped, and the angle of view changed. All at once, he was seeing a pattern of shifting, light-spattered leaves (badly focused) and a white slice of forehead. Very quietly, she admitted,

_"Non. By interfering, I have given shape to what lay in the unformed future. Then, it __must__ occur, because I have anchored it now."_

"Right."

Funny, how quiet Thunderbird 2 could seem, with only the wind and muted comm-whispers to draw one's attention.

"Well… No one else needs to know that. We can say… I know! You fell asleep in class (used to happen to me all the time, especially in Algebra) and you had this really weird dream. Runs in the family, right?"

He was gathering momentum, now, making a carved marble arch from the tiniest loophole.

"I mean, if the Hood's your uncle, it would make sense that you'd have… premonitions or something, maybe catch people's moods or a bit of their thoughts. I mean… right? It could happen!"

Woven in there, and tumbling out all at once, was,

"I love you, too, and always have done. We can deal with this, Angel. We'll figure something out, I promise."

TinTin was looking at the screen again, which from her end had started to sparkle and chirp like a clockwork nightingale. Her face was wet, but love and trust outshone all the silvery tear-tracks. With a single, damp sniffle, the girl said,

_"Ton pere… your father and Scott are trying to reach me, Gordon. I shall tell them, then, of this terrible dream?"_

He nodded.

"Exactly. Even if they think you're being hysterical, they'll have gotten warned. And, if something _does_ go wrong with Dos Santos, we can find a way to get to her hospital room and set things right. I'm one-hundred percent sure of it."

TinTin kissed her fingertips and then pressed them to the screen, blocking her image with three pink, oddly-ridged boulders. Then, whispering softly,

_"I love you forever. Wish me bon chance,"_ she broke the connection.

Meanwhile, the cockpit blazed with trapped sunshine and unwanted heat. No problem, really, and nothing a higher setting on the filters couldn't fix. According to his mission screen, Virgil and Alan were about to disembark… And closer to heart, things were taking a turn for the very much serious.

She'd said it. She loved him. And he'd answered back. Better yet, both of them meant what they'd said. More than a ring or a thread or a scrap of mere paper, _that_ made things permanent.

Red-haired Gordon leaned forward in the copilot's seat, chin in his hands; not really looking at green, hissing tree limbs and fluttering birds. For the first time, he wondered how he might approach Kyrano, and what the old man was likely to say in response.

XXX

_The Mole, below a shattered TA testing facility-_

The craft had no airlock. None needed, usually. But Alan was accustomed to more formality when leaving a rescue ship, having hitched so many rides on Thunderbird 3. By comparison, getting out of the Mole was like walking through the front door of his house. John would've had fits.

Virgil keyed open the Mole's boarding hatch; standing back while it slid aside onto dusty, weirdly-sparked darkness. Okay, so… Alan wasn't really the nervous type. Much. But he'd been a little afraid there'd be bodies right off. Before he had a chance to prepare. See, he'd been helping to drive, first, and then setting up the field generator and getting equipment together. Not thinking about other folks' deaths and injuries. You needed to brace yourself, against stuff like that, didn't you? Except that he hadn't had time.

Now, dressed in a full, helmeted yellow survival suit with its own headlamp and air supply, Alan felt more protected on the outside than in. A really cool health teacher had once told him that no one makes condoms for your heart. Well… no one made survival gear for the soul, either. And he truly, seriously did _not_ want to find anybody out there they wouldn't be able to save.

Virgil, wearing the plasma cutter like a backpack, led their way out of the air-jetting Mole, and down her short ramp. She was angled a little, having come up quite shallowly, and her cutting surfaces pulsed with heat. Like everything else in the big, dusty air-pocket, the drill also sparkled with bluish-white energy. The force field: holding everything in place which wasn't organic or previously treated (like their suits and equipment).

The projected field looked weird underground, causing once-in-awhile lightning streaks to shoot across bowed concrete walls, cracked rubble and dangling I-beams. But that wasn't the strangest thing Alan saw.

Nothing around him was where it belonged. Above lay a low, broken floor-slab; hung with sheared wires like bright-colored entrails. A metal staircase corkscrewed sideways and then stopped in mid air-pocket, with somebody's cell phone resting on the last, twisted rung. Phone and staircase were picked out with the same faint glow as everything else. Washed by restless dust, these sights and a hundred others flashed through Alan's wild-swinging headlamp beam and were lost, again.

"Follow me," Virgil told him, noisily stepping down-ramp. "And be careful. No one's reported any aftershocks, but that doesn't mean they won't happen. Unless this really _was_ artificial… in which case I want names and an address. Keep scanning the ground, Al. With all the debris, it's easy to trip and skewer yourself, or wind up in a really deep hole. Happened to me, once."

Alan followed Virgil; panning his lamp across the shattered surface, and trying to step lighter than mouse-breath.

"How'd you get out?" he asked, wondering about Virgil's accident (which must've happened while his then-youngest brother was off at school).

"I'd like to say good ol' western ingenuity, but John's pretty handy with ropes and makeshift pulley systems. He and Scott drug me outta there. But shut up, now… I've got to concentrate."

Easy for _him_ to say. See… "Shut up" meant no distractions, and no distractions meant "Just say 'yes' to weird, scary thoughts". Not healthy in a place like this.

They stepped off the end of the clattering ramp and onto a big, tilted wall slab… about thirty feet long, maybe, and fringed with roughly-shorn rebar.

"Watch your step," Virgil advised calmly, pointing to a crack like a mouth that could have swallowed a hundred Alans and at least fifty Virgils. Yeah… outer space was looking real good, right about now.

Alan nodded inside his helmet, adding, "Uh-huh," so that Virgil would know he'd been heard. Other than that, there wasn't much talking.

Rather than shouting or wasting valuable time in a blind search, Virgil used his wrist-comm to key up and project John's site map. Then, getting a fix on the nearest red person-dot, Virgil set forth; shuffling, clambering and slashing his way through a crumpled, cement-and-steel nightmare.

Half an office chair and an ugly dark smear met them at the first predicted location. Also, a fallen steel I-beam and lots of upended cement. Looked impossible, but there _was_ a live guy under there. Girl, rather; revealed when Virgil tapped very gently, calling,

"International Rescue. We're here to help. Anyone in there? Answer or tap, if you can hear me."

They got a weak moan and some scratching, instead. Virgil set right to work; pinpointing her exact location with an activated wreckage-snake. Basically a heat-seeking robot camera, the snake could pour itself through cracks and around bends that no human hand or arm could possibly negotiate. It also carried a small amount of nutrient-water, for victims near dead of shock and thirst.

Only then, when he'd mapped her exact position, and the snake had delivered a precious mouthful of water, did Virgil turn on his plasma cutter. It's sun-like blade was intensely hot, causing Alan to squint and back off a bit. The effect didn't spread, though, making it more like one of those fabled light-saber things than a nuclear fire-hose.

Employing the cutter, Virgil soon chopped a huge slab of prisoning concrete and steel into very small chunks. Alan levered them out of the way, using a specially treated jack-and-crowbar tool. It was hard labor, working against the containment field. Alan was soon panting like somebody's grandpa and drenched in sharp sweat. The inside of his helmet smelled like gum, breath and over-stressed deodorant.

He got the job done, though; stepping aside to let Virgil maneuver those critical bits which were actually touching the victim. Slow work, because abruptly released pressure can kill. They had to stand ready with a flexible clamp-blanket, just in case trapped blood started coursing too fast and triggered a heart-attack.

Didn't happen in this instance, but the damage was still pretty bad. Her left leg was all twisted, and the ankle entirely flattened. Grey with dust, and blood-streaked, she could barely move when the weight lifted off. Shock hung nearby like an invisible, life-stealing fog.

"We need to get her aboard and stabilized, fast," Virgil told Alan, once the younger man unfolded and turned on their grav-stretcher. "Remember the way?"

Dry-mouthed, he nodded, helping Virgil to very carefully load up their moaning, half-conscious charge. Used a backboard and neck-brace to do it, of course, and that took _serious_ time.

"Good. There and back safely, quick as you can." Then, leaning close to the dust-covered woman,

"You're safe now, Ma'am. It's gonna be fine. We'll have you out of this place in no time."

She had green eyes, and they looked at Virgil for just a moment before closing again. He stiffened, because maybe she didn't recognize him, but…

"Hurry," he said to Alan, setting the grav-stretcher to full life support. "She needs help. They _all_ do. All that's left, anyhow."

Just like Scott, he'd stayed in these dorms and talked with these people. Flown, laughed, played cards and eaten with them. The earthquake wasn't an accident, he realized all at once, but a deliberate and vicious attack. The young man's gloved fists clenched tight. In his heart, there and then, Virgil Tracy promised revenge.


	51. 51: Do Not Pass Go

Okay, more John, in both iterations. Edited. =)

**51: Do Not Pass Go**

_Tracy Island, in the frantically busy office-_

Time had passed, but Jeff's attention was elsewhere; broadcast news… the Red Cross… his insurance and legal counselors… Lucy's occasional updates… and now an alert from TinTin, supposedly safe in far away Paris.

Concerned, the harried CEO placed Leisha Bonaventure on hold and then tried getting through to TinTin. Kyrano (who'd been quite nearby, setting up dinner) stopped his doings to watch. Jeff signaled the man over with a one-handed, beckoning wave. Not for more coffee, either.

"I can't get through," he said to calm and impassive Kyrano. "She's talking to someone else. Scott, maybe. His comm line's busy, and so's Gordon's."

"I am sure that all is well, Mr. Tracy," replied his elegant, unruffled chef. "My daughter has perhaps learned of the earthquake, and is concerned that one of your sons was present, at the time."

Staring at that buzzing, unhelpful wrist-comm, Jeff plucked at his lower lip with a thumb and forefinger. Unlike Kyrano, the elder Tracy couldn't muster much confidence in TinTin's safety. Not the way things had been going, lately. _Who the h3ll was she talking to, and what about?_

When at last the small screen flashed and TinTin's image appeared, she seemed tearful and worried, but safe, at least.

_"Monsieur Tracy!" _she gasped, dark eyes as wide as a startled gazelle's. _"I have had such the terrible dream, Sir! But only,"_ she added hastily, so as not to seem lazy before the man who'd paid for her schooling. _"…only because I was up so very late in the night, studying frictionless membranes."_

"A dream…?" Jeff repeated, fighting exasperation. "You hit your wrist-comm because you had a bad dream?"

Beside him, Kyrano stiffened; radiating grim disapproval. Perhaps realizing how silly the whole matter seemed, TinTin rushed to explain.

_"It seemed quite real, Mr. Tracy. It was of Captain Dos Santos, the pilot whom Brains and Gordon rescued. Only, she was now in Peru, and in terrible danger. She had been drugged and set forth as bait to snare Gordon. There was much shooting of guns, and… and a coffee cup broke._

_"I started awake, then, cold with sweat, just as il Prof resumed lecturing. Has there been any talk of a meeting between Gordon and this pilot, Monsieur? Even yet, I am shaking!" _

Had there been…? Jeff's mouth clamped into a firm, rigid line. Across the room, he made eye-contact with John, who'd been listening in. His tall, blond son was frowning a little, like someone presented with a brand-new and strangely-shaped puzzle piece.

The information made perfect sense, from John's perspective. Only thing that troubled him was the way it was gotten. Dreams? Really? Next, they'd be trying out tarot cards and on-line astrology. Oracles only functioned in the realm of fantasy. Yet… no one had told TinTin about Marina Dos Santos' letter. Had they?

Beside rumpled, loose-collared Jeff, Kyrano looked utterly impeccable; clean, pressed and proper. One of the few people whose expressions John never struggled to read, because he was basically either smiling or not. This was _not…_ in a particularly stern, hard-faced way. Just off the top of his head… call it a calculated hunch… Kyrano seemed to be taking this dream-business seriously.

Okay. No harm in starting surveillance a little early. There were camera masts all over Lima; meant to help keep the peace and spot trouble. Government-operated, they were strictly off-limits to civilians, and took about 12 seconds to hack into. At the same time (call it hunch number two) John decided to ring up Penelope as a preliminary to tapping her phone lines and cracking into her private files.

Didn't prove very difficult. She chatted airily on the phone with him for close to half an hour. That is, _she_ prattled nonstop about Monaco, something called "the Season" and her up-coming fashion show, while John grunted occasional clueless responses. She made his head hurt.

But there was something else. A repeated and slightly emphasized use of the word "darling". Not especially obvious, but enough to get his attention. He'd been recording the call, so it was a very simple matter to set up a sneaky-fast decryption protocol.

Results came back in a scattered handful of seconds. Taking "darling" as a signpost and employing both the Monte Carlo Method and a modified version of 10pht Crack, this is what he arrived at:

"_Am… under… observation… pity's (sake)… find… release… servants… signal… with… 'fascinating'… if… this… received."_

She was still talking, with details both extraneous and meaningful piling up like a mountainside snow drift. Rather than making his head hurt, though, her blizzard of feather-light words now brought him to full and involved attention.

"This is really fascinating, Miss Ward," he cut in, using her code word. "But I've got to go. How 'bout, um… You call me back, later, when you can get away, and you're not so preoccupied."

Her voice altered. His midair decryption window noted changes in pitch and delivery speed which its algorithms put down to "relief".

"_Of course, Dear," _she purred, all at once oozing the honey-warm essence of sex. _"I've long been deeply attracted by men who fly to the stars. They are so very… __complex__."_

Right. He had serious trouble focusing for a moment, because his every red flag had been hoisted aloft and was waving like crazy. Unfortunately, so were most of the green ones. _Females._

"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed," he cautioned Penelope. "I'm a beer, pizza and rockets guy, with some programming thrown in for fun. The calculations are complex. The pilot… is about as deep as a bottle cap."

"_But possessed of great wealth,"_ she said, _"that chiefest, most sought-after virtue. Mere conversation, clothing and accent can be acquired, Dear Heart."_

Well… nothing like putting things on a business footing, right off. John relaxed, too, because money he understood.

"Seriously, I've got to go. Call me. We'll work something out."

"_I shall," _she promised, in a more normal voice. _"And, thank you, John, darling."_

If only the situation in Nova Scotia had been as simple to manage. By this time, it was midmorning in the far northern Maritimes. Clear, and fairly cold (from a Tracy Island perspective, not that of Burlington, Wyoming, where cold meant your words froze in midair and fell to the ground until spring). He'd been able to keep Thunderbird 2 out of sight by reprogramming everything in the area to simply look the other way or veer off, slightly. Not each mechanism in turn, though; he hadn't time.

But government listening posts, weather cams and surveillance satellites tended to use just a few basic codes, making it easy to write up a worm for specific and limited blindness. Better yet, a highly contagious one. All this, while cautiously researching his father's office staff (to see who might be leaning on Jenkins) and Lady Penelope's staff list (she'd said that her servants needed finding; step one, figure out who they were).

At some point, his mother shoved food at him. Big bowl, orange sauce and wild pasta shapes, with a little Tabasco stirred in. Not sure what everyone else had… but Ricky must not have liked it, because he wound up on his big brother's lap, eating half the spaghetti-Os and trying to poke spoons through the hologram windows. _Kids,_ he thought; shifting the burden as soon as Kyrano walked by.

Throughout all of this, John monitored Virgil and Alan, speaking mostly through Scott. Until, as happened a few moments later, the situation just f-ing exploded.

XXX

_Midworld, Castle Falkirk-_

Cold, it absolutely was. Beyond the high castle walls, wind snaked across hummocks of snow and deep-buried houses, liberating showers of diamonds. And cold it was likely to remain. But Gawain was beginning to plot a way out of this mess, and part of his plan had just now arrived on blowing and stamping mounts. …Except for the half-orcs, of course. Glud and Voreig never rode, for the simple reason that no horse would bear them.

Acknowledging salutes and good wishes all the way down (had _everyone_ learned of Morcar's decision?) Gawain reached the stone gatehouse just before the drawbridge boomed open. Through the inner gate, he strode, around a sharp bend in the castle's main ambush-spot. Here, the normal noises of shouting men, creaking windlass and ringing chains were exceedingly loud. Torches sputtered and smoked, blacking a ceiling that many generations of squires had spell-scratched their names upon. Gawain could still find his own, dim though it was in the gatehouse. A bit below that were the castle's runes of protection.

Guards swarmed like metal-clad ants; some taking up crossfire positions on both crenellated balconies, aiming their cocked and loaded crossbows at the opened portal. Others surged forth like a sea-tide to join and surround their new lord. (Who had precious little regard for his own safety, it seemed.)

White, blinding sun-dazzle filled all the chamber. Faltering hoof-beats and heavy footfalls thudded against iron-hard wood. Gawain took a step forward, despite the cautioning hand of Arnulf, Morcar's chief house-carl.

"Sir," growled the scarred, shaggy blond, "whatever your life an' sword-arm mean t' _you_, they are more valuable still, t' Falkirk. Bide, if it please you, Sir, and let your thanes do as they've sworn to."

Besides being crowded with steel, leather and muscle, the gatehouse now took on a decidedly greenish cast. The ghosts, flowing through stonework like water; with here an eye, there a blade-wielding hand. A swirl of them formed at their feet, but Arnulf seemed not to notice.

Then again, he was magicked, himself, if Gawain read the signs right. Wolf, but long suppressed. Difficult spot for a paladin. Still, if he could tolerate phantoms, half-orcs and one reformed drow…

"Come with me, then, onto th' bridge. Let y'r men remain here, in th' gatehouse. These are friends, and I have no need t' be coddled or milk-fed, Sir Arnulf."

The big man grinned, revealing a badly chipped tooth and shifting his network of scars.

"Lead on, Ring-Giver," he said, patting a notched and broad-bitted ax. "Friends or no, y'll be safe enough. No one has ever faced Emma, here, and lived t' sing of his deeds. Not orcs and not wyrms of the river."

Gawain smiled back.

"Then I am very glad t' have Emma and Arnulf beside me, rather than across th' way and spoiling f'r war… though a fight like that would be long remembered and well worth th' telling."

Arnulf nodded approvingly; a motion noted by all those behind and above.

"Well spoken, Sir. You seem a man we c'n follow."

…And a man who had best be generous, because house-carls and knights wanted gold. Ever and always. Not so the creatures, who had followed him out of… what? A fondness for lost causes?

Gawain met his companions just beyond the raised portcullis. Arnulf towered at his right and a little behind, Emma in full, throat-drying view. Glud ignored him, embracing Gawain with the approximate force of a landslide. This caused Sir Arnulf to take a few practice swings. Things might have got ugly, had not Drehn lowered his hood and murmured an all-purpose calming spell. Not bad work on the suppression, he noticed, but such things tended to fade after a few generations, and this moon-bitten mortal was close to that point.

He slipped from Grayling's saddle, patted the weary mare and then conjured an apple for her. From somewhere within those stone walls, a stallion bugled; long and loudly. A bit more softly came the ringing shout of a centaur colt. Allat sped off once more to bring word, almost losing his thrush-form in the process.

The scholar drifted off of his own parcel-strapped pony to greet Gawain, next. After that, Drehn supposed, it would have been his turn… had someone not pushed her way through the crowd of steel- and leather-clad warriors. Drehn stared, seeing two things at once, and trusting to neither.

Catching the direction of his friend's startled look, Gawain pivoted on the drawbridge. Then he lunged past Arnulf to bar Anelle's progress.

"Milady," said the red-haired knight, very carefully. "'Tis powerfully windy, here. Perhaps… it might be wise t' remain within walls, if y' take my meaning."

(No fault of Gawain's, if everyone within reach of his voice assumed that their new lord's wife had been gotten with child… but it _did_ increase their respect for him.)

Lovely Anelle nodded her understanding and then dropped a swift curtsey.

"Of _course_, Milord. What was I thinking?"

She didn't sound particularly cowed, but then, he'd never wanted that. Not from anyone. Because half the castle was watching, he leaned forward to give the girl's forehead a warm kiss. Just then, her status depended very much on how she was treated by Gawain, and he wanted it clear how things stood.

Setting her safely behind him (within Falkirk's theoretical limits and the shadow of Emma and Arnulf) Gawain then turned once more to face his companions. The half-orcs seemed puzzled. Frodle had taken a curious brass instrument from his satchel, and was using the device to study Her Ladyship. Drehn simply leveled a narrow and piercing stare.

Choosing the language of Tamar, which Gawain knew and the other mortals did not, he said,

"Just when I decide that you've blundered about as deep in the mire as humanly possible, you manage to fall off another d*mn ledge. This is a goal? You work at this? In all seriousness, Gawain, you _do_ realize that she isn't…?"

"Aye." The knight took a deep breath. "And I c'n explain everything… but 'tis likely t' take half th' day."

Indicating the castle with a welcoming sweep of one hand, he added,

"Would y' care t' come within? Y'll be warmer, if naught else."

All at once, Drehn put the bodyguard, Anelle's curtsey and Gawain's offer together, and arrived at a strange conclusion. His friend had somehow got himself declared lord of Falkirk, with a Lady Anelle who did not bear up under close inspection. Who in fact had last been a peasant girl/ squire. The elf bowed, straightened gracefully and then cocked a slim eyebrow.

Reading the question, Gawain lifted both arms from his sides and then let them drop, again.

"'Tis no short, peedee tale, Sir Elf. Come inside, if y' please, and I shall recount what's befallen us."


	52. 52: Tight Squeeze

Thanks, Bee and Tikatu. And, no... for the record, I never get tired of reviews (even though I'm always afraid to look at them). Edited again.

**52: Tight Squeeze**

Before his death, their Master had taken many forms; seizing and controlling anyone in position to further his aims, as though they'd been mere witless cattle. Of course, persons "managed" in this way would be useless, thereafter. The Master rode with harsh bit and cruel spurs.

But there were others who'd only been hypnotized; implanted with suggestions ranging from: _at such and such a signal, you must open and incapacitate the sea-dikes…_ to: _drive yourselves to Bournemouth Plaza and walk out onto the jetty. At thus and such time, a certain woman will appear. Obey her orders._

In this manner, many subtler tasks were achieved which involved no actual break-in or burglary, and very little risk to the Master. Such methods greatly simplified the taking of hostages, too. No one not specially shielded could fight off the Master's commands. Helpless to resist, they'd proceed to their prison and lock their own shackles.

Concerned by their friends' disappearance, those whose intelligent cooperation was required would then have no choice but to follow directives. Mostly. It was always entertaining when one of those hostage-bound agents tried to outwit the Cell and break free.

XXX

_Nova Scotia, at the site of a shattered Tracy Aerospace testing facility, above ground-_

Tangled matchwood trees on one side, a raging sea and unstable cliff on the other made it nearly impossible to land. There _had_ been a long X-shaped runway, now broken to bits like the hangar and office/living area. Black smoke rose from a dozen small fires, only to be snatched by the wind and borne streaming off through the quake-blasted forest.

That same icy wind disrupted the attempts of Red Cross and Coast Guard rescue crews to land on-site in helijets, making it necessary to lower their medics and crisis-workers by basket. International Rescue was present, as well, but underground. The Crisis Management Leader was in constant touch with the Thunderbirds' Forward Air Controller; a no-nonsense sort who worked _with_ them, rather than stepping on toes.

Still, the situation was highly volatile. The TA facility featured several large, underground fuel storage tanks, for one thing. For another, nobody knew when, or if, further tremors might strike. The thought that International Rescue was somewhere below, rooting about in the lowest wreckage levels, did nothing to ease the tension of those above. What if they accidentally ruptured a fuel tank and set off a massive explosion? Serious concerns… But there was work to be done and people to save, and so worries were shoved to the rear.

A few at a time, trained men and women were lowered to the disaster site in spinning, spray- and wind-hammered baskets. These were the people who confirmed that the bodies visible from the air had been shot through the head with unsettling accuracy. They also reported a clean, peeled-back cut in the testing facility's perimeter fence.

Evidence that more had gone on here than a violent and unexplained earthquake. And just like those pieces of hovercraft that _HMS Dreadnought _plucked out of the wild seas beyond, evidence of a ghastly and dangerous crime. The local rescue teams were told to remain in pairs, stay within site of each other and proceed cautiously, just in case the quake had interrupted a burglary in progress, and the gunmen were still about.

It was Cooper and Suresh who found the broken, sparking machine; a device about the size of a dorm-room refrigerator, with cable-leads attached to the ground, and what looked like some kind of plasma dynamo spitting and flashing inside. Tracy Aerospace equipment, maybe? But if so, why leave it out in the open? Had the gunmen an accomplice within the company? Someone they were supposed to pick this thing up from?

Wisely, Coop and Suresh did not touch the strange device. Unwisely, they came close enough to trigger its sensors.

XXX

_Below ground-_

Alan got the injured woman back to the Mole, where her stretcher could be slotted into one of the drill-machine's life support berths and hooked up. Technology took over from there, giving her a fighting chance and allowing the nervous young man to get back to his brother.

Virgil had moved further west, but his plasma-cut trail was easy to follow. Just look for sheared stone and sliced I-beams. Ignore all the dust and the weird, blue-sparked darkness… the mangled aircraft and puddled fuel.

Alan's heart was pounding loudly enough to trigger a warning on the monitor screens of Scott and John, both. Word got around, and then Gordon started talking to him. Dumb stuff; about sports and movies and car-racing… but Alan was grateful to hear it. Anything, y'know? Just to remind him that the world didn't consist of sparking wreckage and crushed dusty bodies.

…And, _dang,_ he was glad to see his brother at last, standing beside a wall of debris in the glow of Alan's headlamp. Couldn't see Virgil's face, but that didn't matter. At least he was there, and alive. Together, they got two more survivors out of the rubble, one miraculously unharmed (but thirsty and worn-out from yelling).

The one dude wanted to stay and help them find others, but Alan got him down to the Mole and told him to keep an eye on his worse-off coworkers. Like, he meant well, okay? And in his place, Alan would probably have been just as desperate to grab a shovel and dig. Except, he'd only have been in the way.

Speaking through the Mole's wall-comm, Gordon next started talking to the guy; all casual and friendly, like an Olympic champion greeting a fan. Worked, too. Nobody got people calmed down like Gordon. He just had that _'Trust me, everything's gonna be fine'_ personality.

Alan couldn't follow the conversation very well, but he stayed on that channel while scrambling and ducking and climbing his way back to Virgil again. Almost made it, too.

The second earthquake was bigger, announced by a very loud, sizzling _crack_, as though lightning had struck underground. Then came a deep, awful grating sound, like someone ripping the bandage off hell. The universe lurched and tilted, not once, but three times.

Yeah. Maybe things can get so loud that you just stop hearing. Maybe the situation can become so wet-yourself dangerous that you cut off emotion and only react; ducking shorn beams and hurtling sudden wide cracks, scraping between buckled concrete jaws like a bug trapped in somebody's huge, revved-up engine. Feeling rocks crack your helmet and headlamp, tasting blood and busted tooth-enamel.

Anyways, the Mole was behind him, being chewed by the same stony teeth that had so far missed Alan. Virgil was up ahead, somewhere, trying to get back. In staticky bits and flashes, Alan could hear him and John, but not Gordon or Scott. Not anymore.

He started to run. At one point ducked an upside-down forest of stabbing-sharp rebar ends, but had to grab for one when the ground tilted away underneath him. Alan hung there, gloves slipping on fuel-slick, ridged steel, legs kicking and flailing wildly over black-throated nothing, dim headlamp flickering. Then the floor rocked back upward again, saving his life.

He hit the ground, windmilled and then stumbled onward, because the force shield was failing and another tremor would probably flatten the place.

"_Alan, g… eft. Vir… out, n…!"_ John, not quite coming through. Maybe the quake had cut through the antenna Gordon dropped? No way to tell, no time to wonder. He did bear left, though, hoping like heck that's what John had been saying.

All at once, another headlamp beam crossed his path, spangled gold with suspended dust.

"John, I love you, man!" Alan called out.

Then Virgil grabbed Alan's arm and jerked him through a full 180, facing his younger brother back toward the Mole.

"C'mon!" he panted, still wearing the cutter. There was an unconscious woman across his shoulders, draped in a fireman's carry. "We've gotta… get back! John… says… no more than three minutes… on the shield."

Alan couldn't answer aloud, afraid that his voice would come out soprano, but he nodded and followed his hurrying brother.

Upstairs, another section of cliff-side crumbled like sand, thundering into the grey, heaving water and raising a second tsunami. Almost too late, overtaken _Dreadnought _fought to turn into the wave. On shore, crisis-workers scrambled and dodged; getting clear of avalanched wreckage and crashing trees as best they could.

Farther away, the first hurtling tremor surged through Thunderbird 2. The earth heaved upward and dropped, like the ground was a bed-sheet and someone had shaken it. The main alarm klaxon beat it by a tenth of a second, if that much.

Gordon was flung from his seat to the metal deck. Landed hard on his injured shoulder, but forced himself up and lunged forward, again. Only thought in his head at the time: _altitude._

The cockpit was listing hard to starboard. Immense, dying-animal groaning noises telegraphed the stress of that massive quake on hull and thin lifting legs. On the view screen, the sky slanted crazily down and across; the Mole's entry hole looking like a giant mouth. Trees swayed or they shattered, some falling right at the toppling Bird.

Gordon hauled himself back to his seat and punched the impeller switch. No time to raise her legs, just to get the h3ll out of Dodge and off that rumbling, cracking meadow. Riding a surge of impulsive force, Thunderbird 2 headed for daylight; nose too far up, lifting-legs badly askew. She cleared the trees like a whale, broaching from forest to sky.

Farther off, Scott had set up Mobile Command in a sheltered and high-walled cove; a place from which he could transmit and coordinate in relative seclusion. The first mighty tremor reached him some thirty-five seconds after roaring past Thunderbird 2. He had a little more warning than his brothers. Enough to remotely switch on the autopilot, then turn and race back toward Thunderbird 1. Not quite enough to outrun the subsequent landslide of boulders and uprooted trees, though.


	53. 53: Fight For Survival

Sorry to take so long! And many thanks for reviewing, Tikatu and Bee. =) My presentation at the seminar was a big success. Whew! Thank God that's over...

**53: Fight For Survival**

_Nova Scotia, underground-_

Above, people darted and scurried like ants. Running this way and that, they flailed for stable footing on a surface that cracked and buckled like shifting pack-ice and roared like a huge, calving glacier. Below them, matters were worse; in the same way that being inside a tiger's digestive tract is worse than trying to outrun it. Fewer options.

Alan followed Virgil's broad back and bobbing gold headlamp beam (his own having shorted out several minutes before). The world around them muttered and growled, straining against its electromagnetic bonds. John must have boosted the force-field's power, somehow… sacrificing time, maybe… because Alan's hairs were standing straight up, tipped with faint bluish sparks. His skin tingled, too.

Virgil seemed not to notice; or else, like the fighter he was, just shut all that out and kept going. Tough to do, when their shattered surroundings bowed and flexed with each rumbling tremor, barely held back by the force-field. Every once in awhile, parts of John's voice got through, but not often. Something had happened to the ground antenna, or else there was too much EM interference.

Still, that voice drew them onward; past grinding surfaces of iron-spiked concrete, around torn, dripping plane wreckage and seemingly bottomless chasms. Alan didn't think, because he couldn't. Just reacted, following Virgil and getting his suit un-snagged from the grasping claws of all that ragged, sharp metal. The helmet must've saved his life a hundred times, even if it did feel like his head was trapped in a bucket that someone kept banging with rocks.

Then the Earth heaved again, pinning him briefly. It happened in what was left of the connecting tunnel between the engine-test bunker and a smashed-up research lab. (A short-cut suggested by John.)

One of the cracked-in-a-million-pieces, force-field-bound walls pushed outward like a frog's throat, crunching Alan against what used to be maybe a floor. (Tiles, y'know? Black and white and spattered with red beneath all that dust.)

Someone was making a lot of noise in Alan's shrill voice. Yelling for help or something, because their legs were trapped and being rolled like clay snakes between two hard, shifting palms. But Virgil was holding tight to his arms. Not pulling, because their brother's fractured voice said: _hold on and wait…going…try something._

Alan clung to Virgil, who would have pried those stone jaws apart with his bare hands if he'd had to. The noise was grinding, rumbling, yelling; pleas and gruff oaths and static, mixed with the ice-water calmness of John. Then, just a little, the force-field shifted; its flickering power withdrawn from everywhere else but the tunnel and Mole. The jaws' grip slackened just a bit. Just enough.

_"Now,"_ said John, and Virgil pulled hard, hauling his gasping young brother out of death's hand. But chunks started raining down all around them, released by a badly strained force-field.

Virgil abandoned the plasma cutter. He took up the injured woman again and half-dragged, half-carried Alan a hundred yards to the waiting Mole. That guy? The one who hadn't been injured? He ran out to help them with a metalized debris-blanket unfolded over his head like a silvery banner, covering them all when they met halfway.

They still got hit with falling rubble, but the blanket's weird fibers spread the shock all over its surface, turning savage punches into mere slaps. Ducking beneath its rippled and creaking material, they made it across those final few yards, got inside and then locked themselves down.

Alan would've helped drive, except that something was wrong and he couldn't sit without screaming like someone had knifed his whole spine. So he just stood, weight on one leg, holding onto the back of his chair. Bill (that was the guy's name) meanwhile did what Alan told him to; shutting the hatch and retracting the ramp, leaving Virgil to handle the drive controls.

Their drill started up on the first try, but it still felt like forever before they got moving. No choice but the surface. Nowhere to go but up, following the best route John could map for them.

Inside the grumbling, uphill-slanted cockpit, they kept their helmets on. Had to, with a civilian employee aboard. Alan hung on through a haze of pain, jerking motion and the rusted taste of his own blood, telling Bill what to do with the scanners and almost-dead force-field projector. Where to direct it, and stuff. When he couldn't talk because of muscle spasms, John took over. Better yet (being a frickin' genius) he had an idea.

Thinking quickly, the astronaut reconfigured their force-field so that it caught and deflected visible light rather than rubble and stone. The Mole didn't turn transparent, or anything, but incoming light rays were bounced off in ten-million strange, non-coherent directions. Yeah. _Something_ broke out to the surface, but you couldn't tell _what._

The change (as the Mole's drill went from cutting through dense, shifting concrete and steel to rock and then soil) was something you felt through the soles of your boots and your locked, aching hands and clenched teeth. The noise went from scream to whine and then beautiful, no-resistance whirr. She leveled out a little, too, making it easier for Alan to stand and hold on.

After a quick, panting second, Virgil opened the view screen shields. Light streamed in, but no images, because John's altered force-field screwed up their receiving capacity and comm system, too. Go ahead, though… Ask Alan to list his complaints, just then. He'd have hauled off and punched you.

Because the ground had stopped lurching, Virgil could tell Bill and Alan to open the hatch and extend the Mole's boarding ramp. Thanks to the weakened force-field, it looked like they were surrounded by bright, shifting fog with nauseating pulses of ground, sea and sky floating through. Slivers of hesitant people, too; coming just close enough to call out,

"Hullo? Red Cross, here. Someone inside?"

"International Rescue," Alan responded, supporting himself on the threshold. "We, uh… we got... got some victims in here that need help."

There were wave noises and gull screams, too; mixed with a distinct sea-smell and the sharp turpentine reek of snapped evergreens. (Feeling suffocated, Alan had opened his helmet's filtration system.) Up front, Virgil turned to Bill, saying wearily,

"Listen, if you wouldn't mind helping out a little longer, we can get these folks unloaded and into the right hands."

Bill had wiped most of the dust and grime off his face, but his smile lines and forehead creases were still caked with the stuff. He nodded and said,

"On it, Boss. Lead the way."

(They'd worked together before, y'know? And Bill wasn't stupid.)

Together, the two men got the Mole's injured cargo offloaded, handing them gently to the waiting rescue-team medics. Alan wanted to help, but his left leg had stopped talking to him, and his hips were knotted and girdled with fire. He had all he could handle just not to fall down, okay?

Enough to be thankful for, just to find himself still alive and back on the surface. At least… until he remembered Gordon and Scott.

XXX

_Thunderbird 2-_

Alarms shrilled and lights flared; stall warning. She was ascending too steeply and Gordon knew it. The impellers lost their grip on the ground as Thunderbird 2's angle climbed toward ninety degrees.

Desperately, he seized and wrenched the engine controls and aft steering rockets; his mind a white-hot rote checklist. The giant green Bird nosed over a little, slewing sideways and down. Losing altitude again, she scythed half an acre of trees, ripping another lifting leg clean out of its moorings. An awful, snapping and shrieking noise filled his head and the cockpit. Sounded like the end of the world.

Gordon was flung against the instrument panel and then his right armrest. Should have been hurt, but he wasn't much feeling anything. Too busy. Through the main view screen, he could see splintered trunks, the shuddering ridge and a claw-slash of vivid blue sky.

Then Thunderbird 2 ground and slid over another few acres of tree-line; like belly-flopping onto an upturned wire scrub-brush. It sounded and felt as if millions of cats were stropping their claws across the hull. Then she broke free and rose again, trailing ragged branches and spinning, warped legs.

Safe? Maybe… Below her, the ground convulsed like it wanted to die. Half of that sparkling ridgeline collapsed with a volcanic roar. Left behind, the pod fell into the Mole's rapidly caving tunnel. Just fell in, with a booming, metallic groan. Overhead, around and through the barely-saved Bird, winds howled and buffeted.

Inside the cockpit he heard another strange noise. At first, Gordon couldn't tell what was causing it. Then he recognized his own harsh, grunted panting. His hands were shaking, too. He had to cross both arms on his chest and clamp his hands, _hard,_ between torso and opposite arm to regain some kind of stability. That, and a couple Hail Marys...

A few minutes later, John called. John, not Scott. Took him awhile to process this fact, and what it might mean.

_"Thunderbird 2, Island Base. Thunderbird 2, how do you read? Repeat, Thunderbird 2 from Island Base. Do you copy?"_

"Yeah… Copy, Base. Right here, more or less in one piece," Gordon replied, pressing the status update switch (though it wasn't necessary; John and their father certainly knew what had happened, already).

_"You okay, Son?" _Jeff's voice cut in, worriedly.

"Could be better, Dad," Gordon admitted. "She's, uh… stabilized at a thousand feet, but I've lost the pod and two legs."

_"What about __you__? Are you hurt, Gordon?"_ his father demanded.

"I'm… I dunno, Dad. Hard to say. Give me a minute to take it all in… Scott and the Mole, though? How's everyone else?"

…And how the h3ll was he supposed to collect Virgil and Alan, now?

_"The below-ground situation's still developing,"_ replied John, very calmly. _"In the meantime, we need you to head north and west about twelve hundred clicks to check on Scott. Thunderbird 1's still online and responding, but we've lost Mobil Command. Best speed, Gordon. I'll keep radar off your back and talk you through the course changes."_

"Right."

Gordon nodded at a screen full of snowy, flickering static; wiping at the trail of blood which was threading and itching its way from the corner of his mouth and along his bruised chin.

"Fire away, John."

_"Copy that, 2. Let's get some of those status lights and alarms dealt with. Start heading north, and hit the switches as I call them. 42A, upper right panel…"_

Funny, how routine work and a steady voice could reset your insides, again. In the background, Gordon could hear Ricky crying, and Dad repeatedly hailing Scott.

'_He's okay,' _Gordon promised them silently. _'Just needs a lift, is all'_.

Flying just above a toppled and quake-ravaged forest, the red-haired young pilot banked away north.

XXX

_Elsewhere-_

Warned by alarms, Scott had run, pelting flat out for the safety of Thunderbird 1. Then the ground shook and the cliff heaved drunkenly forward, simply coming apart in midair; rocks, trees, bird colony and all.

In the cove, seawater mounded up, forming a silvery and frothing dome maybe a hundred, hundred-and-fifty feet high. Twice that, around. There was a noise too loud to be fathomable. Then the rocky, uprooted cloud which _had_ been a cliff cascaded down like a blizzard of boulders and wood, pitching Scott off his feet. For security reasons, he'd been wearing a helmet and camo-patterned survival suit.

Rocks tapped and then cracked against his reinforced helmet as Scott forced himself to all fours and then upright, again. Looked like a storm cloud, felt like dust, debris and crashing disaster. Rumbling, cascading boulders and whipping tree limbs. Water, too; a huge wave caught up and lifted Scott, who flailed wildly around for something stable to hang onto.

He rolled a few times through stuff that was too gritty and dark to be water, but supported him better than dirt. The survival suit, following one of its preprogrammed options, inflated itself and turned yellow; forming a sort of buoyant cocoon. He tumbled and swirled like a leaf on the rapids, bumping hard against rocks and pummeled by towering waves.

Time after time, shoved down by onslaughts of timber and mud. Again and again, bobbing back up to the air and smudged light. Moments like these, nobody said complete prayers. All Scott got out was the name of God and a few clutched-at saints. Bernard, right? Avalanches? For some reason, all he could think about. The noise and battering were constant; horrific.

The he popped upward one final time and stayed there, floating atop a logjam of mud and felled trees. His faceplate was too dirty and scratched-up to see through, at first, but Scott wiped at it with a gloved, shaking hand. (Not as easy as it sounds in a fully inflated survival suit on rough, debris-choked seawater.)

Overhead, gleaming like a needle through wheeling birds and clouds of billowing dust was Thunderbird 1, homing right in on his short-range suit beacon. She'd made it. Out of reach for the moment, but there.

His suit antenna was broken, or Scott would have called in. No problem, though, because Thunderbird 1 stayed put like a hovering signal flare. The others would find him. If… that is… they were in any condition to.

Scott Tracy wasn't the sort to just lie there and let himself be swept out to sea with half of a mountain. Thinking hard, he worked out a way to cut on and off his chest-mounted suit beacon; generating a laughably weak Morse code signal. Managed to speak to Gordon that way, before the gutted green oval of Thunderbird 2 roared into view.

_'Down here,'_ he tapped.

2 cut off her engines, switching to impellers and steering rockets in order to nudge gently alongside Thunderbird 1. Stirred up a whirlwind of hissing and whispering dust in the process, kicking up fountains of muddy salt-spray.

_'Have you in sight,' _flashed back Thunderbird 2's few working running lights. _'Will lower basket.'_

There weren't many prettier views than that giant green cargolifter, dropping her shimmering thread like a spider. Now, if only Virgil and Al were somehow okay…

XXX

_Midworld-_

Drehn hesitated, tilting his blond head back to examine that looming fortress of griffin- and raven-carved stone. Snakes of blown snow hissed and whipped at him, causing the drow's long hair to snap like those black and red banners. To Gawain, who'd somehow been made lord of Falkirk, he said,

"My kind doesn't usually tour such places, except as a lopped-off head, riding on the point of a spear."

There were many curved iron spikes on the battlements, meant for precisely that sort of dripping and grisly trophy. But Gawain just shook his own red (and well attached) head.

"Y've my word of honour, Sir Elf. So long as I live, Falkirk is home t' you. All of you."

Reassuring words… but the castle and its balefully glittering ward runes still made his flesh creep. Still, he had much to say to his mortal friend, not all of it good. So…

"Thank you," he said at last, falling in beside Gawain as the knight passed beneath an ice-fanged portcullis and into the dim stone gatehouse. Well defended establishment, Drehn noticed. _D*mn_ well defended.

Just passing through the bent, two-level gatehouse, he, Glud and Voreig were the unwavering focus of many silent, crossbow wielding guardsmen. Not to mention the towering house carls, with their razor-tipped spears and notched axes. At Drehn's other side, Frodle trotted along with brisk taps of his staff, looking all about as though a fortress of mortals were new to him, too.

Ringing footsteps and growled orders sounded. Wind whistled and moaned. Out through another arched, metal-barred opening, then, and back into dazzling sunshine. They'd reached Falkirk's main bailey, and attracted _more_ thanes; armed, mail-clad and scowling, wreathed in the mist of their own puffing breath.

Despite their new lord's evident ease with his visitors, the sight of a sorcerous elf, a staff-wielding scholar and two mighty half-orcs clearly alarmed them. Good time for a peace spell, maybe… though his magicks hadn't been quite so effective, lately.

The mixed-up thing which was partly Anelle extended a hand to him, then. Realizing that she was making a point about his general 'tameness', Drehn accepted her cold little hand and bowed slightly.

"My lady," he said, only a little bit mocking.

"Welcome to Falkirk," she replied, very softly, her illusion-green eyes roaming the faces around them, as though daring her kinsmen and servants to denounce the greeting.

There were many tense folk peering from the cracked-open doorways of huts and storerooms. Others, from high, narrow wind-eyes and arrow-slits. It was just about then that Blanchard and Chester came clattering forth from the stable; one having unbolted their stall door before the other could kick it to pieces. Allat circled overhead, still in bird-form. He looked like a raven, now, except for a very long, gold-feathered tail. On Voreig's broad shoulder he landed, croaking aloud.

Nearby, the colt first shied away from 'Anelle', hugged his Da, and then rattled and skidded right up against Grayling, who nuzzled him gently. Blanchard snuffed Gawain, pretending to graze on his friend's coppery hair before ambling over to greet Dapple and Grayling. There was much grunted and snorted horse-talk, then. Complaints about weather and forage, mostly. Bit of posing and attempted romance, as well… though Drehn's magicks kept the mare forever out of season (didn't stop Blanchard from hoping, however).

Gawain would have liked very much to speak with his newly found friends, but there was manorial business to attend to, first; including the swearing of a by-proxy oath to the High King's messenger. Bretnoth, himself, would have to approve the new lord's promotion, but all of that lay in the future. For now, Gawain heard the report of his various people, accepted their fealty… and wondered where, in Heaven's name, Gareth had got to.

This, it was, which led him to steal away to the high gallery around sunset; a place he recalled as a favourite of the (then) boy's. Sort of a stone colonnade, open on one side, it backed onto the family's private withdrawing room.

Bit further on, through a heavily warded door, the gallery opened onto a high, round tower built from massive blocks of tan sandstone. Gawain was tired and hungry. A headache had taken fiery residence behind his right eye. He wanted to see and speak with Anelle and the others. But work, and his "wife's" missing brother, prevented it. Halfway along the gallery, something strange happened.

One moment, he was stamping his booted feet to beat the sensation back into them, looking about and drawing his cloak bit closer. Next, everything disappeared but a very bright, eye-searing light. One doesn't become accustomed to the visitation of a deity. One endures.

Gawain's nerves curled and his skin prickled. The air was driven from his lungs as though he'd been savagely punched. Words were impossible, but he managed to think…

_'Speak Your will, Sir. I'm listening.'_

The voice came once again from within; pounding and surging with his own breath, blood and heartbeat. It said,

_"Take these others and ride forth. You will meet with your fellow paladins, whom I have summoned. Through your bond with another-world self, you shall take them all and enter a place called 'Simulator Room'. There, the link between worlds may be found and attacked. The spirit of that place will attempt to prevent you from severing this link. Destroy her, and save Midworld. Obey."_

When the reeling young knight blinked his way out from under that crushing presence, he found himself face to face with dark-haired Gareth, who was thoughtfully fingering the ivory hilt of a dagger.

"What ails you?" snapped the disinherited lordling.

Gawain shook his head. He felt rather burnt out and hollow inside. Not quite up to a fight.

"I… was out f'r a bit of air," he said, more to stall than anything else. Then, as Gareth stepped away from the column shadow which had partly hidden him, "Bein' as I've got t' leave f'r Rhees, soon… I'll need someone here, t' keep watch over Falkirk, whatever."

Gareth paused, but his expression wasn't receptive. At his heart, Gawain couldn't blame the fellow (who was older than _he_ was, now, thanks to the time spent in Faerie). Unfortunately, others were far less disposed to be charitable.

Ghosts streamed in a phosphorescent green river through stonework and sky, visible only to Falkirk's new lord (to Frodle and Drehn as well, down below).

They swirled and howled soundlessly, reaching with glowing wisps for the bitter and vengeful young man. As running footsteps sounded on stone, and doors banged wide open, Gawain said,

"Gareth… I beg that you'll do nothin' rash. You stand in more danger than you realize."

"From your pet monsters?" sneered Gareth, in a voice twisted with rage.

"Nay. From Falkirk, herself. She cannot be mastered through force or treachery. You _know_ this."

Then, as Drehn and Glud eased up behind him, dividing to stand at either side of their friend… as Sir Arnulf strode through the tower door, shaggy head lowered and axe at the ready…

"I've no wish t' fight or t' banish you, Gareth. I need you _here,_ guardin' y'r parents and helpin' t' manage th' place in my absence."

The overmatched lordling's eyes narrowed. Rigid as a plank, he was… and closer to death than if he'd been a hundred years old and the food-taster of a particularly bestial king. The wind howled, with more than just natural voices. Stones shifted and creaked. In Arnulf's scarred, meaty hands, Emma gleamed wickedly, catching and splitting the light.

Then Anelle rushed forward. She came to her brother and placed a hand on his tensed and quivering arm.

"Gareth," she said, "Please stop this. The manor at Reinhold is yours… father said so! With all of its lands and chattels. And… and if a marriage is made with an heiress of substance…"

He shook her off, eyes still locked onto Gawain's.

"It would seem the whole world is against me," he said. "You've won everything, Gawain… My lands, fortress and family. But a thing which starts one way may end quite another; and the journey to Rhees is a long one. By all means, scurry to Bretnoth and answer his dog-whistle. I'll 'manage' things in your absence, just as you've asked."

Said Drehn, speaking once more in the language of far-off Tamar,

"Should I fry him? Takes three syllables and a flick of the wrist. Problem solved."

"No," responded his weary, red-haired friend, using the same foreign tongue. "Anelle's brother, he is. Quite dear to her, and the Lady Kait… if not to anyone else. Find a spell. Something. _Anything_… until Frodle can come up with a permanent means to sweeten him up."

Like he needed this, atop the rest of his piled, swaying troubles! From the corner of one eye, as Glud rumbled threateningly, Gawain saw their elven comrade gesture, slightly. They heard a faint popping sound and beheld a wash of pale corpse-light. When the manifestation ended, Gareth had frozen in place; alive, but petrified.

"You said _anything,"_ Drehn told them, a little defensively. "And he'll be all right again in about a day… give or take the odd muscle spasm."

Glud leaned forward to snuff at the petrified nobleman.

"Alive," he concurred. Then, tapping a crooked knuckle against Gareth's frowning, crystal-hard face, "but frozen, and safe from mischief."

Gawain sighed, too beset to feel much relief.

"Right. Bring him within, then. Sir Arnulf, I thank you f'r comin' so quickly."

The suppressed wolf-man shouldered his axe and then bowed.

"I've sworn t' protect and serve you and yours, Milord. That, I shall do, no matter the threat. If I may be bold, Sir… Gareth was right on one point. The road t' Rhees is long and dangerous. You'll have need of strong men and much magick."

Drehn, beside Gawain, cocked a silvery eyebrow.

"And… 'Pet monsters'?" he asked, hiding a hard-edged barb with his slight, mocking smile.

Arnulf's yellow eyes shifted to search the drow's face. Then, he said,

"A grim, pale world it would be, if not for monsters. What would a man test his strength upon, else?"

Drehn smiled privately, turning away to help Glud balance his shouldered load of quick-frozen lordling. He was starting to like the big house carl… which no doubt spoke badly for Arnulf. Said Gawain,

"Prepare y'r men, equipage and horses. We leave f'r Rhees in two days… Milady included."


	54. 54: Throttle and Bottle

Thanks for reviewing, Bee and Sam. Responses forthcoming, promise. =) Edited.

**54: Throttle and Bottle**

_Nova Scotia, floating on a seething morass of timber and muck-_

Misusing his chest-mounted safety beacon had been quite difficult in the midst of a surging fluid avalanche, especially while wearing a fully-inflated survival suit. Climbing into the rescue basket was no joke, either.

Always, there was the threat of further quake and inundation, or of being pinned and rolled under by shifting grey trunks and torn branches. The suit's buoyancy protected him somewhat, its almost un-pierceable toughness, still more. Many times he'd been dragged underneath, staring helplessly upward through roiling murk and tangled black shadows; jabbed and smashed at, scrabbling after a still-open pathway to sunlight and air.

Finally, he'd been able to clamber on top of the flood-wrack and stay there. No easy process. The surface he rode on tilted and swirled. Winds whipped overhead, moaning past the cove's high walls; past a rock-face stark grey and slashed where its tall pines and bird-streaked boulders had been shorn clean away.

Overhead, Thunderbird 2 slewed and bobbed, having some trouble holding position. Even from here, Scott could see that her forward control surfaces had been damaged; one steering rocket unable to rotate, two others flaming out like 4th-of-July sparklers. On the whole, it was a testament to Gordon's flying ability that he was able to maneuver the injured Bird at all, much less drop her in close to the rocket-plane.

_'Good stick-and-rudder man,'_ Scott thought approvingly, watching through scratched, muddy plastic as 2 settled in and the basket dropped lower.

The blue-black shadow of one cliff had crept halfway up the other side, by the time 2's rescue basket reached Scott. Everything took longer, because Gordon was flying by himself in a damaged and oddly-configured aircraft. Ordinarily, Thunderbird 2 had her pod in place when performing a difficult rescue. She was not meant to fly long distances and execute aerodynamic miracles while missing half of her mass and her streamlining hull.

Not convinced? Sounds easy to you? Imagine driving along the freeway in a big, powerful luxury sedan and then having it convert all of a sudden to a motorized shopping cart with one balky, squeaking wheel. Now imagine you had a chain-handled butterfly net, and one vital egg to scoop up from the surging and buckling roadside.

Yeah… Gordon was taking things slowly. Thunderbird 1 hung beside him like a tail-heavy, silvery dart, locked to Scott's suit beacon. She'd come so terribly close to being no more than a drifting tombstone, but the comically puffed, mud-grey and yellow figure below was _alive;_ still able to tap out advice and encouragement. And then, when the basket pendulum-swung just low and slow enough to be caught, to clamber within it.

Glimpsed on the flickering view screen (antenna and cameras had taken some damage, too) Scott first seized hold of the tilting basket's metal-mesh side, then heaved himself over, spinning and swinging above the piled, rushing tree trunks. Then he collapsed to the bottom of the rescue basket, looked up and waved. Gordon waved back, though Scott couldn't see him.

The rest was a cautious, steady retrieval, made with one eye on his altitude and collision-alert sensors, the other on his eldest brother's transmitted image. Certainly, important events were happening elsewhere: in Lima, Interpol was setting a careful trap. In London, Lady Penelope had learnt of her hostaged servants' location, and was calmly preparing to signal John Tracy. In Manhattan, Brains had conceived of a sleek new drill design. While over in Houston, Dr. Bennett heard certain news, grew pale and sat down, knocking several framed pictures and a stuffed toy cat off her desk.

But all of that was elsewhere and somewhat scattered in time. Here, now, Thunderbird 2 winched up her basket; pulling Scott Tracy those last few meters to safety. Spinning beneath the noisy green cargolifter, he'd seen her whirling around overhead like a giant, elongated donut. It was weird, peering up through her missing gut at the clouds and reddening sky. Weird… and a little upsetting. She seemed wounded, somehow.

The basket jerked and vibrated upward, drawn through a yawning hatch and then locked into place with a mechanized chorus of rattles and pings. Devices hummed, and the doors beneath him swung closed, blocking out a rumbling torrent of mud and uprooted trees. Only then, when the hold-light glowed red all around him, and the farthest he could fall was ten, fifteen feet, did Scott deflate his survival suit. It released with a weary and wavering hiss; just like his sternly-pent tension.

He heard and felt Thunderbird 2 start to move. Upward, he thought, and a little bit sideways; the closest she could come to a banking turn in her current, eviscerated condition. Thunderbird 1 would fly alongside, he knew, remotely piloted by John or their father.

Scott piloted himself (a little unsteadily) removing his helmet just in time to hear:

_"Son? Scott…? Can you hear me? Are you all right? We're not getting any telemetry from your suit."_

"Yeah, I hear you, Dad. I'm okay," answered Scott, though it was an awfully loose interpretation of the facts. Truthfully, he felt like something hell had finished with, bagged up and chucked out the window. "What about Virge and Alan? They still in one piece?"

_"__Alive__, yes,"_ his father reported grimly, as Scott maneuvered his way out of the basket and onto a vibrating metal gantry. _"__Unhurt__, no. Alan's been injured, but he's conscious and aware of his surroundings. On the other hand, Virgil believes that these quakes were some kind of deliberately triggered assault."_

Scott's dark, heavy eyebrows climbed skyward.

"An assault?" he repeated. "That… would be awfully serious, if it's true, Dad."

…but he hoped to God that it wasn't.

"You want us to head over, pick up the pod and the Mole?" Scott suggested, ignoring a whole chorus of aches, pains and sprains as he shuffled along the gantry to Thunderbird 2's rear crew cabin and locker room.

_"Not yet, Son. There were a number of hikers and campers caught in the earthquake who need a quick airlift to safety. Civilians are priority, always. __Then__, Virgil and Alan."_

Cut in John,

_"The pod's gone and so are two of the lifting legs. Severe damage to the others. Rough takeoff."_

Scott nodded absently, glad that at least Gordon had managed to save Thunderbird 2. Glad that his brothers were safe, with or without the d*mn pod. Mere hardware could always be replaced.

"We've all had a few of those," he responded, thinking of rough takeoffs and barely-survived rescues. "Trick is not to get caught the same way, twice."

And that meant stopping the Hood's vicious thugs, something no one was sure how to do, yet. They were working on it, though. Long and hard and ferociously.

All things considered, it was a grim and battered Scott Tracy who went forward to join Gordon in the cockpit; dropping into the copilot's seat with a low and exhausted grunt. After a moment, he switched a few instruments on and transferred partial control. Their coffee pot lay on deck in a thousand sticky brown shards, or Scott would have taken the strongest, darkest cup pourable. But at least there was water, and a functioning head. Small favors, you know?

"Thanks for the rapid pick-up, Gordon," he said. "That was some first-rate flying, back there."

Put out a hand, too, which Gordon accepted and shook.

"Reeling in brothers is becoming my specialty," the redhead responded with a brief, crooked smile. Scott smiled back.

"Well, it's catch and release," he said, "so you're gonna be busy for awhile."

"Yeah…" countered Gordon, eyes once more on his instrument panel and flight controls. "Probably get my picture on the cover of _Field, Stream and Rescue, _too."

"The magazine for American millionaire nut-jobs," Scott chuckled, rubbing the back of his own aching neck. "God, I wish we had coffee… or a few beers, at least."

"Pretty rough, down there?" Gordon ventured, glancing at his weary and grimacing brother. Scott's helmet-bruised face was illuminated by reddening twilight and instrument glow.

He could have said a lot of things; might have joked, or told the whole, frightening truth. Instead, Scott compromised, reaching over to correct 2's drift with a bit more starboard rocket.

"Had a couple of close calls, but I'm still here to bitch about it, so I guess everything's straight and level." Could have been worse, he didn't say aloud. Could've been a _lot _worse.

Gordon nodded understandingly, and together they got back to flying their hollow, half-crippled Bird. The job wasn't finished yet, rest and bandaids a long way off.

XXX

_Nova Scotia, above ground, by the sea-_

Unloading his pitiful cargo of rescued quake victims took almost no time at all. Sea and sky were just beginning to darken, the sun still piling up gold and rubies away to the west, when Virgil shook hands with Bill and a Coast Guard lieutenant at the end of the Mole's boarding ramp. Virgil wore his scuffed yellow survival suit and darkened helmet (though in Bill Eberhardt's case, that didn't much matter).

"Thanks for the help," he told them both, and the gathered Red Cross personnel. Had to speak up to be heard over the clattering med-evac helijets, but his audience got the message.

"Thank _you," _said Lieutenant Aaronson. "There's no way we could have gotten to those people in time. Not without better equipment."

He squinted past Virgil as he said this, trying to make sense of the drill's vaporous, rippling outline.

"Speaking of equipment, sir," said an approaching medic, followed by a couple of worn, grubby rescue workers, "Coop and Suresh, here, think that the lightning-machine's getting set to cut loose, again."

She had everyone's attention at that point; from Virgil and Alan to Bill and her fellow rescue workers.

"Lightning-machine?" Virgil repeated, feeling his muscles bunch and tense like he was back in a three-point stance on the football field; listening to a loud, hurried snap-count, staring through the bars of a helmet at someone who wanted him beaten and _down._

The medic turned from her officer to face Virgil.

"Yes, sir," she told him, "right over there."

Lifting one arm, the bloodied brunette pointed to a dusty, ground-hugging device that had once more begun to vibrate and spark. Virgil had been too busy to notice, before. Couldn't take his eyes off it, now.

"We figured it might be TA equipment, except why would they try to steal their own earthquake device? Why would they build something like that, in the first place?"

"You're saying it triggered the quakes?" Virgil asked her, quietly pressing his suit's comm switch.

"Seems like it, yes, sir. Coop and Suresh accidently got too close and triggered the thing. So it…"

"Generated some kind of massive lightning bolt," supplied Cooper, shaking his head at the memory. "And right after that, we had the next temblor. Figure if the ground'd been wet, we would've been killed. Bad enough, anyway, trying to dodge all the trees and debris."

Right. For some serendipitous reason, Virgil thought of the med-scanner. Giving the civilian rescue workers a swift nod, he strode up the booming steel ramp and back to the Mole. There he seized a med-kit, racing back to scan and image the flickering quake-machine. Transmitted the data straight back to Island Base, too.

"Don't get too close, eh?" warned short, wiry Suresh. "It goes off on its own if you come within ten meters."

Sam Cooper nodded his blond head emphatically, clutching at a recently splinted right arm. He owed Krishna Suresh his life, and a couple of beers, besides.

Virgil was more than willing to heed good advice. He stood well back, using the med-scanner's extreme biohazard/ radiation-threat setting to image and scan the earthquake machine. Then, as it really did seem to be sparking faster, its ground-affixed cables beginning to quiver and hum, he said,

"Everybody off. I mean _now._ Back to your ship or the helijets as fast as you can."

Fortunately, _Dreadnought_ had survived the tsunami, and _Battle-Axe_ was just now rounding the point. Better yet, a few med-evac helijets were still present, circling overhead just in case someone turned up another survivor. Aaronson signaled _Dreadnought_ while the medic beckoned those clattering, swooping support choppers. Then,

_"Mole,"_ snapped Jeff Tracy's taut voice, sharp as a whip through Virgil's helmet comm. _"Thunderbird 2 is on her way. Get all civilian and Coast Guard personnel the h3ll off the premises, and prepare for emergency pick-up. Thunderbird 5 is at work on a disarming protocol, but under no circumstances are you to touch or approach that device!"_

Thunderbird 5...? But their numbering system had always stopped with the rescue sub, Thunderbird 4. Some kind of code phrase for Brains, or John, maybe?

"Copy that, Base," Virgil responded through a sandpaper-dry mouth. "Evacuation in progress, standing by for the cavalry."

XXX

_Midworld-_

At last… after oaths and feasting, boasts of their valor and mighty deeds… the roistering war-band grew quiet. Drunk, mostly, or taking noisy comfort in fair, gold-ringed arms. As their new lord, Gawain had been expected to keep up; drinking horn after horn to the gritty dregs and eating twice as much as anyone else but Glud and Arnulf.

Made several trips to the garderobe and muttered a string of sobriety spells, but _still_ felt tipsy and bloated. By the time Arnulf stopped singing to thump his shaggy blond head on the scarred wooden table beside Emma, Gawain was fairly well pickled, himself.

He had to weave his way out of the hall and bury his face in a glittering snow-drift to regain any sort of alertness. Glud cheerfully helped out by thrusting a big handful of new-fallen snow down the back of his tunic, which Gawain meant to avenge whenever the world ceased its perilous spinning.

"Soon's I can see straight," he gasped wrathfully, "'m takin' both y'r damme heads off."

The half-orc grinned, displaying sharp, boar-like fangs… and if he saw two images of the same half-orc, did this make one whole, treacherous blighter? Must've said something to that effect, because Glud laughed and then re-stuffed his already cold, sodden tunic.

"I would say that you're drunk as a lord," remarked Drehn, slipping away from a clot of wavering, torch-cast shadows, "if that wasn't beating and stripping a corpse."

"Still awake, at any rate," Gawain mumbled. He leaned upon the stone wall for support, since his supposed friends were all back-stabbing wretches and sons of their mothers. Thankfully, the drow was able to clear his head somewhat. Not with a spell, but a sip of that horrible, gut-searing potion.

"Villanous stuff," Gawain snapped, thrusting the silver-chased flask away with a shudder.

"Gets the job done," his friend shrugged. "Which is more than I can say for spells and sigils, these days. Now… _Milord_… if you're through outperforming your noble troops…?"

Gawain's face and hands were scratched and wet from the snow bath. Didn't mean he couldn't scoop up and hurl a fast snowball, though… or that Drehn couldn't easily dodge it. The impromptu weapon crunched harmlessly against the rim of a carven stone arch, causing the nearby torches to flicker and hiss. On the bright side, his vision had snapped back into perfect focus, and he was no longer thinking through many warm, fuzzy layers of mead.

Sensing this, the half-orc and drow escorted their comrade to the armoury, where Frodle waited with Allat, Voreig and Lady Anelle (who was supposed to be safely abed). It was a cluttered and low-ceilinged place; lit by mage-glow and ritually shielded by Frodle, whose own magicks might be weakening, but whose mind remained sharp as an icicle.

Anelle sprang forward to greet her young husband, then paused, nose wrinkling at the scent of spilt mead and spiced ale.

"Not drunk," he informed her, adding honestly, "any longer."

Nevertheless, his lady leaned forward delicately, hands lifting her rose-velvet skirts from the dust. One brief kiss she gave him, on the cheek, because he'd turned his head just a bit. Not until Anelle and Britte were each free in their own bodies would he accept more. Well, married life was certainly off to a rousing-fine start…

He took his seat upon a stack of leather-cased shields, waiting until Drehn had shut and warded the door to say,

"I thank you f'r comin'. A great deal has happened in these last two days… an' my head's still reelin' because of it. Too much, too soon, with more t' come, if I'm not gravely mistook… but y'r presence makes everythin'… that is t' say…"

He lacked the proper words. Frodle smiled, anyhow, saying,

"You're quite welcome, Friend Gawain, but thanks are not necessary. What else would we have done? We seem to have formed a family, of sorts; strong, for all that it wasn't created through accident of blood or race."

"But we're also not blind, or stupid," the elf cut in, jerking his head at Anelle. "What do you mean to do with Her Ghostly Highness, over there? Let her keep hold of the love stricken girl-child?"

Though the snow-sting had faded, Gawain flushed red. He also surged to his feet, clear of head and icily furious. But,

"Gawain," Anelle murmured softly, touching a tightly clenched fist, "he has the right to ask what is questioned by all… And, _yes,_ the girl loves you, who have shown nearly all of the warmth and kindness she's ever known. Also, she loves because I do. This will not change, so long as my spirit quickens her body."

Beside them, the halfling's round face went all scrunched with concern. Without using instruments, this time, he studied the possessed, lovely girl.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, running a hand through his curly dark hair, "Sorry for all of you. But this matter cannot be simply or quickly resolved."

Gawain resumed his seat on the creaking shield-pile, pulling Anelle down beside him. Their linked hands rested upon the girl's knee, interlaced in a complex and loving knot, his larger, sword-roughened one uppermost.

"What must we do?" asked the knight. "'Tis bound I am t' meet Bretnoth, an'… and I've had a message from th' God of my Order… but Milady needs help, and I'll not neglect her _or_ Britte. Tell me how this spell may be undone, Sir Scholar."

Frodle shook his head.

"It _can't_, not by me or by any Midworld spell-caster, anyhow. Not without killing young Britte and the others attached to this web. If Her Majesty leaves their bodies, she becomes free to take another, but those abandoned shall certainly die."

Anelle's head bowed and her slim, velvet-clad shoulders began to shake. She did not weep loudly, but Gawain nevertheless placed a protective arm around her.

"There is always a counter-spell. A way out," he insisted. "Cost matches th' deed, whatever… But f'r somethin' like this, I'd be willin' t' give up my own life, or…"

_"NO,"_ Anelle ordered, drawing sharply away to glare at him. "Gawain of Espan, Orkney and Falkirk, by the blood and love between us, you'll offer up no such thing! Not a hair of your head, nor a day of your life! Do you not understand, even _yet_? If your thread were cut, I should survive, but never again truly live… Only drift through a bitter eternity of longing and grief. You are part of the bargain, My Heart, or I shall not bid."

And then, though he still smelt strongly of mead and smoke and the feasting hall, she embraced him, burying her face in Gawain's broad shoulder. It was Voreig, speaking with difficulty, who rasped,

"Your god… appear? Give quest?"

Gawain pulled his face away from the top of Anelle's head to look at the half-orc and nod.

"Aye. He did, that."

"Then…" the hulking, weirdly man-like creature continued. "Do bidding. Ask boon."

Drehn stepped away from a wooden spear-rack he'd been lounging beside, saying,

"He has a point, Gawain. Earth gods and Those-below are bound by the magick of the elements, but sky gods follow their own twisted logic, and have more power, besides. Comes of having deposed and stripped the Old Ones. Your deity, if caught in the right mood, could certainly change the rules, saving everyone."

Off to one side, Glud patted his younger brother's muscular shoulder approvingly.

"Voreig talks little, but thinks much," he grunted. "The reason he is sent on journeys of trade. Not easily tricked in the marketplace or bazaar."

"Almost… slave-sold there," rumbled his brother, feeling words escape as emotion built up; raw as a stitched, oozing wound. Voreig's head turned to regard Gawain.

"Friend-ness between us, always."

"Accepted," responded the Cross-Knight, smiling briefly. "And many thanks f'r th' notion. I didn't precisely take his meanin', but I'll tell you what Milord commanded, since He says I'm t' bring you along."

_That_ got everyone's sudden, vital attention. Even Allat ceased clinging to the ceiling in dragonet form to drop down and listen, munching an ancient bronze short-sword.

"Right. I was commanded t' ride forth, rejoin m' brother knights and… an' this part makes little sense as yet… use a link with "another-world self" t' find somethin' called "simulator room", bearin' th' lot of you with me. There, I'm t' slash th' bond between Midworld and a dyin' mirror-realm, savin' us all from takin' their fate."

Gawain frowned, then, because some of those details he'd have sworn sprang up new-forged and unbidden.

"So, there you go, Sir G!" Allat crowed brightly, spitting forth ingots. Hating silence, the shape-changer went on to say, "Just head out, collect dad and the boys, shift us all to parts unknown, chop a golden anchor chain or something, and put a big smile on His Holiness. He'll _have_ to grant you a wish then, right? Or even three. I'd definitely hold out for three, buddy. Can I use one of them? Or two? I've got a zillion ideas!"

Gawain patted the shape-changer's jeweled scaly head.

"Y'll have t' speak with the others," he said. "If three wishes there are, then one must be used t' safely draw Milady from Britte, Kel an' Laney… another t' bring me a second go at Faerie's usurper, but th' last one you five surely deserve, t' use howsoever you will."

Frodle stroked his chin, intrigued. The gift of a god was a thing to be sought for, and very carefully used. Poorly chosen, such wishes had toppled kingdoms, sparked heroic fable and ignited terrible wars.

"We'll consult," the halfling decided aloud, glancing at Drehn, Voreig and Glud, "and try to come up with a proper group wish. There's no point in getting excited, though. We have no assurance that the Lord of Battle and Flame will offer any reward whatsoever… though the stars are right, and there _have_ been precedents…"

His voice trailing off to a mumble, the scholar summoned and opened his leather-bound tome. The others fell to talking amongst themselves, suggesting this or that wish-possibility. But Anelle, somewhat white-faced, drew her husband aside.

"The planes alongside us are hazardous, Love," she whispered. "And I shall not be present to guide you. Once out of Falkirk, my soul and substance must sink back into the children, again. But _this, _I may do, like any fairy-maid wailing for her young mortal lover."

Reaching up, she took his face in her hands. One kiss she gave him upon the forehead.

"Receive the strength of ten, Love, for the space of a year and a day."

Then, she kissed his unshaven right cheek, slightly scraping her full, rosy lips. Warm breath soft on his face, she said,

"Receive the Sun's Bond, for a similar span, that you may wax in power with Him, ever rising anew from the darkness."

Now his left cheek was caressed by her hand and mouth.

"Receive, most of all, the Blessing of a fled, deposed queen. One who would count all the rest well lost, were her love to return safe from battle."

Each kiss had brought with it a soundless, internal wrenching as something within him was changed. He stumbled a bit, bursting with unaccustomed power.

"Be careful of handclasps and doorways, Love," she advised him. "The strength of ten can wreak dreadful havoc, if not well contained. 'Ware nightfall, as well. You'll be weakest at sunset, nearly immortal at noon."

…Or somesuch. Her words and face _would_ keep fading and flickering, blaze-like. As though the spirit within was scorchingly close to the surface, now.

"Against mortals, even those of another plane, these gifts may shield and assist you. Against fairies or gods_, _not as much. Be wary, Love; but mostly, be safe."

Anelle drooped against him, then, and they both collapsed to a seat on the shield-stack. He, over-filled, she, drained nearly powerless. Once again, Gawain pulled her onto his lap, hardening his heart against whatever might dwell in that vampiric other-realm. You see… This time, he _had_ to win.


	55. 55: Turned Corner

Thanks for reading and reviewing, Bee. =) Picked up on one of Tikatu's suggestions for this one. Short, but newly edited.

**55: Turned Corner**

_Thunderbird 2-_

They'd been able to collect only one shaken and terrified hiker… stuck at the splintered top of a shorn pine tree on a slope of sharp, unstable scree… when Dad called. Possible aftershocks, he'd said. Pick up the pace, snag the injured driver of that jack-knifed lumber truck, and then haul a$$ for the coast.

Gordon caught part of their father's call as he strode back into the cockpit, sticky with smeared, gummy pine sap.

_"…immediate danger, so long as they stay away from trees and buildings. That truck is about to go off the edge, though. You're going to have to be fast."_

Silhouetted against the bright view screen, Scott nodded briskly.

"What about the Mole?" he asked. "There's no way we can pick it up now, is there?"

…Now that Gordon had screwed up and left the pod behind to be crushed, he probably meant. All at once, the incoming swimmer felt about three feet high and four years old. But Scott spied him out of one blood-shot eye-corner, and waved Gordon over, miming that he was to take the controls. Dad was talking, again.

_"The Mole is best off on the surface, in our own territory," _said their father, sounding as tired as Gordon felt and Scott looked. _"I've started legal action to declare the area a no-fly zone. That should keep the press out of the way, until we can repair 2 and return for our missing equipment. I'm more concerned about your brothers and that so-called quake machine."_

There was more, but Gordon caught only bits of it, being preoccupied with lifting 2 safely away from the landslide-scarred ridge. The hiker had mentioned a boyfriend, but their campsite was gone, buried beneath a hundred feet of loose, broken rock or swept off into the lake.

Gordon hadn't known what to tell her… Jerri, her name was… except that people were looking, and that surely someone would find the poor guy. Kinda stunk, you know? Just some average Joe on a hiking trip with his girl, when the world ended; torn away with a sudden, hard roar. He hadn't even had time to get out of the tent.

Well… there was nothing Gordon could do about that one, maybe, but he could still help out with the Marina Dos Santos situation… then with finding and saving that stranded truck driver… and scooping up Virgil and Alan. No matter how bad things got, there were always a few pieces left to be swept in a pile and glued back together. Right…?

Had to push all that aside and just fly, then; minding John's directions instead of Thunderbird 2's confused, blinded instruments. Would have got lost if he hadn't, because north was doing whatever it d*mn well pleased. According to his compass, sitting bang in the midst of Boise, Idaho, at the moment… which was a big improvement over Bangkok, anyhow.

So, on the outside, Gordon stayed calm and did his job. On the inside, he felt like road-kill; flattened and dry, with buzzards hopping up close and hungry. Thinking of TinTin helped some, almost as though she could reach in to touch and correct what was wrong. As if she could make him stronger, somehow.

Scott went aft to the head, stopping at the refrigerator on his way back. Came forward again with their last bottle of water and a couple of aspirin. They split the goods, Scott asking,

"You haven't picked up any strange new diseases, have you?"

…when Gordon tossed back the quarter-full drink bottle.

"No. _Well_… nothing penicillin and a few months of clean living won't cure. _Kidding,_ Scott. It's a joke. I've just had the bandages peeled off, remember?"

"I don't know," Scott contended, eyeing the water as though he could see back-stroking germs in it. "That Dr. Bennett…"

"Isn't my type."

"You mean she's over 65, or secretly a man?"

Hah, very hah. Let a guy have a few (hundred) wild times on the swim circuit, and nobody would _ever_ let him live it down, afterward. Fortunately, they'd arrived at the danger zone, so a change of subject was possible.

"Stick or basket, funny-man," he demanded, deftly switching to quarter-impeller over a bent, twisted 18-wheeler. It lay on its side by a cliff, halfway off the road, spilling a tangle of pine logs and chain. The road was a buckled grey ruin, strewn with smashed rock and crazily-angled trees. The driver was huddled atop the dented red cab; his face an upturned oval, his plaid shirt crusted with blood. He looked heavy and fairly immobile. Scott glanced back over at Gordon.

"Who's in better shape?" he asked, because the injured driver was going to take some maneuvering, both into the basket and out to the passenger cabin.

"I'll go," said Gordon. "You fly."

Scott started to argue about it, then nodded and sighed.

"I'll keep you out of the trees," he promised, hitting the intercom to tell their passenger what was going on.

Gordon gave his older brother a brief wave/ salute, and then left the cockpit. Just like at the Olympics, you had to push right past exhaustion, limits and pain. You had to keep going.

His yellow survival suit was sticky with tree sap, making him smell good; sort of pine-y fresh and rock dust-y. Not that the driver cared. When Gordon spun and swung his way down to the pale, wounded man, the guy struggled to stand up, but couldn't. Forty-five, fifty years old, maybe. Tall and rangy, with tobacco-stained teeth. Face peppered with gravel and windshield bits.

He lifted his less bloodied arm as though meaning to catch and steady the basket, but Gordon said,

"Stay out of the way, sir, please. You'll get knocked off the truck."

"Sorry…" the man hiss-mumbled. Fractured jaw, evidently. Wedding band on his puffy, scratched hand.

"No problem, sir. Just don't want to see you get any worse hurt."

Gordon steadied his basket using the same long, hook-ended gaffing pole that he'd brought to bear rescuing John and Dr. Bennett, and then Captain Dos Santos. Locked the big, mesh box into place against the semi-truck's crushed red beetle-shell cab. Then he helped the driver to rise and get in. Poor guy was shaking all over. Wheezing and grunting in an effort not to cry out. Something about his seamed blue eyes reminded Gordon of his former coach, Matthew Fox.

"Right… _umph_… There you go, coach. Up and over… easy, now. Have you inside in a minute, sir… right as rain."

Carefully, he eased the big, wounded driver to a crouching seat on the basket floor. Got him a blanket, too, from the equipment box. There was _one_ the odds hadn't got. _One_ who'd be returning to the people who loved him and stood waiting for news, back home.

"Ready to go for a ride?" Gordon asked him, after giving Scott the thumbs up.

"Rey-ee," the driver managed to grunt, too worn out to shiver anymore. The whole thing took less than fifteen minutes, and Scott was already headed for the coast at top speed, while Gordon got their newest passenger settled into the bunk beneath Jerri's.

"It's okay, folks," he told them, before turning to leave the cabin. "You're safe now."

At the time, he thought that was true.

XXX

_Tracy Island-_

John was doing about twenty things at once. Not unusual, and not beyond his capacity. The World Space Agency did nothing, if not turn out competent, icy-veined multi-taskers.

One of those things was to study Virgil's "earthquake machine" data for a means to shut the thing off. Another was to direct Scott, while dad remotely flew Thunderbird 1. Meanwhile, the subtle flare and dimming of a midair computer screen hammered a message into his subconscious that John had to shelve for a time.

He still had the specs on that upcoming moon-shot to finish reading up on, and the situation at Corporate to handle. Plus the press and World Government. Then there was Lady Penelope, who'd slipped off to use a newly-bought, pre-paid cell phone. Her voice was sexily breathless and playful.

_"I've located them,"_ she purred, backed by the muted and genteel sounds of a restaurant. _"Never you mind just how."_

And then she proceeded to reel off an address that came up on his screen as waterfront, and extremely low-rent. Figured.

"Got it, Pen. I can send three or four operatives or a swarm of detectives. Your choice. Quiet, or nuclear?"

_"Quietly, if at all possible, darling. I've my cover and reputation to think of, after all. After that, dear, it's off to the tropics, to visit my good friend and benefactor, Eduardo Dos Santos. Shan't be terribly difficult to convince him that Lima simply bursts with romantic possibilities. N'est-ce pas, dear boy?"_

Dear boy…? John blinked. She had three years on him, if that. Still, if "older woman of the world" was how she wanted to play this…

"Sure thing, grandma. Quiet, it is. Now, go spackle those wrinkles, squeeze that saggy a$$ into a cocktail dress, and see what you can get out of your buddy, Eduardo. Further instructions once you've reached Lima."

There was a moment of frosty, shocked silence. Then,

_"You wretched, ill-bred, grubby little __beast__…! I cannot believe that I ever once contemplated…"_

"That's okay. I get contemplated a lot. Doesn't go much further than that, usually, but I score pretty high in the slow-down-and-look category. Now, if you're done being shocked, I'll take care of your people. You head for Peru."

_"I despise you,"_ she snapped, breathing hard through her nose.

"It'll pass. Always does."

…And at least, over the phone, she couldn't slap him. For some reason, he had visions of that having happened a lot. Also had visions of his back being clawed and his neck bitten in a tangle of bed sheets, but that had no place _here_. Did it? She said,

_"I shall ring from another phone once I've arrived in Lima… and... and Eduardo means nothing."_

Then she hung up. The thing… unopened message, or whatever… in his subconscious was turning prickly and insistent. But then another screen pinged, this one with the results of that jury-rigged scan. John cleared his cerebral desktop and told his rambunctious physiology to calm the h3ll down. Then he pulled up the scan and 3-D projection.

"Sh-t," he muttered. "Double sh-t, backward."

Moving the earthquake machine, or attempting to cut off its power, would simply trigger another eruption. Worse, the device was programmed to release its generated plasma bursts in ever fiercer explosions. Literally, they'd seen nothing, yet.

"Gotta be a way," he told himself, staring at holographic, 3-dimensional doom. "Come on, genius… _think."_

XXX

_Nova Scotia, at the ruined TA testing facility-_

Virgil hated to do it, but he had to abandon the faithful Mole. For one thing, its force field was about to crash. For another, the drilling machine would be uniquely vulnerable to thundering groundswells and furious water. Like an empty beer can, it would simply be crushed.

As the filled helijets darted off like chattering dragonflies, their windows flashing back spears of red sunlight, Virgil helped Alan down-ramp and out of the Mole.

"There's another quake coming?" his younger brother panted, wincing as he limped along beside Virgil.

"Maybe. Not sure, yet… but it's better to be out in the open, away from anything that looks dangerous."

He'd brought along the med-kit and some field rations, just in case they were stuck for awhile. _Dreadnought_ and _Battleaxe_ had offered to take them aboard, but Thunderbird 2 was on her way, and Virgil preferred to wait. Both he and Alan were wearing survival suits, and though the kid was injured, it didn't seem life-threatening.

He couldn't take his eyes off the earthquake machine's squat, deflated octopus form. In the gathering darkness, a sort of blue phosphorescence clung to the device. Fifty yards away, it hummed like a tuning fork and spattered like bacon grease. _Dreadnought_'s lights were just visible behind the scarred and shadowy point; its noises absorbed by crumbled stone, fallen trees and hissing dark water. Nice of them to stick around. Dangerous, too.

"Virgil?" Alan's voice at his side, muffled by cold air and helmets. He wasn't using the comm.

"Yeah?"

"Gordon and Scott are still coming, right?"

"That's what they tell me," Virgil replied. His body was as tense and coiled as though there was grass beneath his knuckles and an enemy lineman across the way, spitting insults and teeth. Just then, there was absolutely no music in Virgil's head. No music, at all.

"Think they'll get here before that thing goes off, again? Or, maybe it won't fire at all, huh? Maybe someone has to get near it, first."

"Maybe," Virgil agreed, never taking his eyes off the sparking device. He felt electrified, lifted out of himself and ready to fight. Then,

_"Mole, Island Base. You copy?"_ It was John.

"Online and listening, Base. What can I do you for?"

_"Thunderbird 2's about five minutes out. In the meantime, here's what I need you to do…"_


	56. 56: Underway

Thanks, Bee and Mitzy! Edited.

**56: Underway**

_Nova Scotia, at the shattered TA testing facility-_

The wind had dropped off to near nothing. Lit by starlight and pale phosphorescence, sea water hissed and rippled and slapped on the rocky shore. The broken ground at his feet felt like a restless sleeper; still for the moment, but soon to mumble and toss, slapping at bothersome itches. And always, the machine droned and spat, visible only in spark-lit and featureless outline. As John had predicted, it was winding up for another ground-ripping jolt.

Difference was, three minutes ago Virgil had been facing a deadly, unstoppable enemy. No plan, no real weapons. Now, after talking to John, there was just this one crazy, skittering chance. Call it one in a thousand… but better than nothing at all.

In his hands, Virgil gripped two things: his heavy, sleek sidearm and a large rock. (Just in case bullets had no effect. Seriously; a blunt instrument, properly employed, often brought peace and solved problems.) Behind him, propped against a fallen cement light pole, Alan was similarly armed, with a weapon that Virgil had retrieved from the Mole.

Anyhow, they waited and watched until one star out of that scattered, glittering mob seemed to brighten and move. Just white at first, its sparkle soon developed shimmering green and red darts. Then it detached from the sky, giving vent to a deep, rumbling growl. Thunderbird 2.

Despite everything, Virgil grinned at the sound and the sight and the size of her. Even missing her pod, even mostly in shadow, the big aircraft was beautiful.

"They're here!" Alan shouted, behind him.

But the plan called for speed and courage, not blind admiration. Scott and Gordon had been briefed, same as Virgil. They'd be ready, and no doubt as dry-mouthed as their ground-locked brothers.

There came a stuttering lull from the noisy device, as John remotely assailed it with tidal waves of conflicting signals. No, he couldn't shut the thing off. It was brutally resistant to outside reprogramming. He could blind its sensors with nonsense, though; hiding Thunderbird 2's bow wave and massive impeller "footprint". Long as she stayed high enough in the jewel-scattered sky, anyway… and that was part one of the plan. On to part two:

Before the Bird was quite overhead, she extended her own version of the Mole's useful force field. Meant to act as a tractor, it was, and quite powerful in short, directed bursts. Also invisible, except for a slight rippling effect which made the stars behind seem to shiver and sway. Virgil cocked and raised his pistol; hands steady, mind focused.

The force beam whipped out of 2 like a striking snake. Seizing the tentacled earthquake machine, the beam tore it clear off the ground in one great heave. Instantly, huge, shrieking arcs of blue plasma burst from the thing. His cue, and part three.

Virgil took aim and began firing. Shot after loud, ringing shot; until all he smelled was powder and all he heard was the sharp crack of murderous bullets. The shock and vibration traveled up through his arms like he'd taken to punching a wall. Half-blinded by plasma and muzzle-flash, still he kept shooting, because the lightning-rimmed nightmare was too bright to miss.

So far, so good. Only, some of those writhing-blue plasma bolts, failing to locate the ground, locked onto Thunderbird 2, instead. Overhead, the giant Bird shuddered, crackled and flared; outlined in flame. Virgil switched clips with a snarled outburst that was half oath and half plea. Behind him, Alan opened fire, as well. Angle was bad, and his aim not as good, but he kept trying.

Inside the cockpit, surging bolts of electricity leapt from the instrument panel to burn Scott's ungloved hands. He shouted aloud and leapt clear, then returned, because the overwhelmed Bird could not fly herself. She pitched and shuddered, each rivet and seam lined with flickering blue.

Gordon burst from his seat and ran aft, speeding for all he was worth. He heard screams and shouts before he got to the passenger cabin, stumbling and scrabbling for purchase each time another spasm rocked Thunderbird 2. Gordon had to muscle that hatch open; stuff grinding and popping in his right shoulder that he'd probably regret later.

…But the passengers were hooked up to a med-system that was linked to Thunderbird 2. Massive bursts of energy were burning their way through the Bird's network of cables and wires. If not disconnected, the passengers would fry. The athlete didn't hear his own scraping footsteps or harsh breathing as he forced his bulky, survival-suited form through the part-open hatch. Just the terrified cries of trapped people. He'd have detoured through hell to get to them.

The rest came in bursts. Wide, frightened eyes. The injured driver, partway out of his own bunk and tugging at the security straps which held half-conscious Jerri, only one arm working. Sparks arcing across the deck.

Gordon reached the bulkhead-mounted emergency release button. There was another great, wallowing heave from Thunderbird 2, nearly spilling him to the deck. Green nylon safety straps gave way all at once, so Gordon lurched to his feet to catch the slumping old man. There wasn't time for two trips, so he took hold of Jerri, as well. Circuits popped and lights flickered. Overstressed metal buckled and moaned.

While up in the cockpit, Scott struggled to isolate and shunt away plasma, Gordon sought shelter for his charges. The head, he thought… safest place aboard Thunderbird 2… small and insulated. He got them there and down onto a brief square of rubberized, waterproof decking. Mumbled encouragement, patted a blood-stained shoulder, and then had to leave.

On the ground below, about the same time that Scott wrestled Thunderbird 2 out over water, Virgil finally hit something vital. The earthquake device was well-armored. Its only weak spots were safely internal. But repeated shooting had finally got to one. The machine rasped and then crackled, its tendrils of flaring blue plasma detaching from Thunderbird 2, just as her pilot cut off the tractor beam and dropped the device in fifty feet of black water.

There was a tremendous splash, then a brief swell of blue-glowing ocean, but no earthquake. Then darkness clamped down once again. Virgil's legs gave way and he sat with a thump, eyes searching above him for the blacked-out hulk that was Thunderbird 2.

She was there, still aloft. He could hear and feel the subtle throb of her impellers. Dark, though; no more than a light-stealing smudge on the sky, pricked with flame here and there.

Then her last working lights clicked on again. He could see her wide, curving window and scorched, half-lit "2". And d*mned if he didn't feel something besides smoke and rock-dust stinging his eyes.

_"Virgil!"_ Dad's voice, over the suit comm. _"Son, what's happening? I can't get through to your brothers."_

"It's okay, Dad. They made it, and the machine's gone for good; no earthquake. I can see a couple of shadows moving around the cockpit, up there. No… one's gone, now… the other's signaling. Basket, I think. They're going to lower the basket. Want me to park the Mole someplace safer?"

_"No, Son. I want you to drop off those passengers and come home. All of you."_

"Copy that, Base. Give mom a hug for me, and tell John that his plan worked. We nailed the S.O.B."

Jeff replied, and his voice had a weary but genuine smile in it.

_"Will do, Virgil. Both say 'Thank you'. Now, get aboard and come home. It's been a long day."_

XXX

_Midworld-_

Before leaving, there was much to be done. Wells, storehouses and granaries to bless, supernatural portals to seal, arms and supplies to acquire. Each man of the war-band was responsible for his own kit and steed, but providing replacements fell to their lord… as would healing and payment.

None of this was quick, even with Gareth's unwilling, hooded-eye help. Frodle had placed a complex spell of non-aggression upon the young lordling, but it didn't stop him from quietly seething. Still, he'd not be able to raise his hand in anger. Nor would he pay or compel any other to do so, and that was what mattered.

Otherwise, Gawain was quite busy. The castle rang with noise and activity. Horses were shod and fitted with warm, secure armour. Blades were forged and arrows made; prayers chanted continuously, by Falkirk's grim priests. Not that the fortress needed it, but Gawain placed warding spells on her joists, arches, doorways and gates, as well. When Drehn reminded him, he added the moat, wall and arrow-slits.

The drow wanted to speak with him; something about the "other side" and simulator room… But Gawain had not one moment to himself, between cockcrow and nightly collapse. Also, there were physical troubles. As Anelle had foretold, the suddenly magnified strength was a bothersome business, resulting in many snapped bones and wrenched door-latches.

Eventually, he learnt to be delicate, but the matter took time. Worse still was his sun-bond, which caused the new lord to feel perfectly marvelous between midnight and late afternoon, but increasingly weakened thereafter. Literally sick, at first (a thing he'd not experienced since becoming a paladin).

He had also to meet quite often with Morcar, whom he still addressed as "milord". Old habits, like strong leaders, are slow to pass. His Lordship was full of travel advice, recommending the River Humber as a means to move swiftly, thence to the sea and a faster, less expected route south. Sounded well to Gawain, and he said as much, over the warmed ale the two shared at the end of each day.

Lady Kait hovered nearby during their meetings, doing fine needlework or directing her servants, sometimes coming forward simply to bring more drink or to rearrange Morcar's ornate wool mantle. He could do for himself, of course, but enjoyed his wife's touch too much to say so.

Much was discussed in these few last meetings. Much stored away in heart and mind. Very strongly, Gawain had the feeling he would not see Morcar alive, again… So perhaps he lingered at ale and supper, listening closely to advice and stories he'd already heard.

But tales end, just as lives do. Gawain at length took his leave of the good folk who believed themselves to be his father- and mother-in-law. From Kait, he received many embraces and a parcel of strong herbs. From Morcar, a blessing and the gold ring of Falkirk. Accepted it, too, though he wasn't allowed to wear such things, any more than ride beneath Falkirk's banner. He was a Cross-knight, representing only the Lord of Battle and Flame. No other device could mark him, ever.

Finally, the morning of departure arrived. Bit tricky, that, as everyone assumed that Gawain had to employ magicks to re-disguise Anelle. For that matter, they assumed that she _was_ Anelle.

Right. Gawain chose to leave the castle and cross the moat leading his lady on her dusk-coloured palfrey, with Chester alongside, twitch-eared and nervous. He'd made his farewell to the woman he loved the night before; sitting upon the wood floor by their bed, holding her hand and just talking. Now, having bidden good-bye to one, he needs must explain to the other.

The palfrey, named Apple, was a sweet and spirited thing, much given to sly attempts at jerking her gold bridle from his hand. Didn't work. Instead, as her polished hooves clipped daintily over stonework and drawbridge, Gawain held fast. Snow flew about a bit; featherless birds carried aloft on a mouthless mutter of wind.

Chester lollopped noisily along beside them; all rangy muscle and tufted winter coat beneath his fine armour. Anelle, for so she still seemed, gazed directly ahead, gloved hands tight on the silken cord reins. Soon… and for who knows how long… she would cease to be; not a thought nor move of her own until wakened by magick, or Falkirk.

Gawain walked slowly, craning his neck from time to time to look back at her, and back at the tall, grey-walled fortress. The changeover took place before Apple's small hooves touched ground at the moat's other side. Smoothly, as though an unseen hand had wiped the frost from a pane of cold glass.

All at once, Britte came to herself, wearing beautiful clothes and riding upon a fine steed. _Out_ of the castle, rather than into it, while her lord… who'd last been riding behind her… _walked at her side like a groom._ Britte gasped and nearly fell from the jeweled saddle.

"Sir…!" she hissed, clutching at the steed's braided floss-mane. "What… what has…? I don't…"

"Britte, hark t' me," he said, speaking in an urgent low whisper. "All's well enough, but y've been… _possessed_, f'r want of a better word. We've tarried near a se'nnight at Falkirk, where…"

Gawain looked upward, heaving a gusty and frustrated sigh.

"…we were wedded in seeming. _Not,"_ he hastened to add, turning his gaze to her startled face, "in body. I've not touched you, lass. My oath on it."

Britte's hands clenched upon the reins in her unaccustomed soft gloves. Chester had by this time nudged up at her other side to take hold and embrace her. She was lifted off of that costly saddle and then, with a deft twist of the centaur's muscular torso, deposited back on his horse-pad and blanket. Grinning, he said,

"Hullo… Britt!"

"Chet…" unable to think at the moment, she hugged her deliriously happy young friend. Behind them, the castle walls were lined with as many heads as though a great battle had been won. These were alive, though; pointing and calling in awe.

_Wedded…?_ She peered hesitantly at Sir Gawain, who stood holding the palfrey's gemmed bridle, still. He said, a touch sadly,

"They believe you t' be th' Lady Anelle, and so you were, f'r a bit. I ask… please… that you allow them t' continue believing so. 'Tis a great comfort t' those at th' castle… Lord Morcar an' Lady Kait most especially. They think that I've placed you under disguise, Britte."

The young squire felt more things at that moment than she had names for; chiefest among them, stinging eyes and a fast-swelling nose. Gawain drew a silken handkerchief from the palfrey's gold-worked saddlebag and offered it up to her. A lady might have wept daintily, but Britte just blinked back hot tears and forcefully blew her red nose.

"I don't understand, Sir… B- But I won't betray you. Not ever."

His expression cleared a bit and he said, simply,

"I thank you, Lass, and so does Milady. She bade me tell you so."

Then he turned, lifting one mail-clad arm as though to signal the fortress. Greatly daring, Britte caught at the arm before it could fully rise.

"Sir… if I may," she whispered, puffing white, frozen clouds. "Are w- we to sleep together, in one bed?" Her heart pounded jerkily. Fear and something other, between them, were viciously tearing it apart.

"Same pavilion or cabin, aye… f'r we're t' take ship, soon. Not th' same bed, though. Sleep on the floor, I will, or place a sheathed sword between us. You have my word, given in truth and before my Lord, that we shall be no more than knight and squire."

"And friends?" she asked, from some newly-broached cask of audacity.

He smiled at her warmly, and Britte tingled from scalp to scrunched toes.

"Ever friends," he promised, touching a gauntleted hand to her gloved one.

No wedding ceremony could have brought the girl greater joy. She did not wish to lie with him; the notion was terrifying. Smirching and bloodied and painful. But to fight at his side… sit by the fire outdoors, sharing ale, bread and laughter… to take ship for far lands with her friend and companion… Well, the girl's heart was full, and seemed likely to burst with it. She smiled back.

Only then did Gawain signal forth the clattering war-band of house-carls, proud thanes and mounted peasants. Only then did Drehn, Glud, Voreig and Frodle come forth leading Blanchard, with Allat aloft overhead.

The crowded folk on the castle's battlements raised a great cheer as the men below raised and unfurled the Sword and Raven. Britte's dark eyes widened.

"Sir," she asked, "what is happening?"

Gawain vaulted athletically onto his saddle, landing atop Blanchard with a clash of chainmail and squeaking leather. Over the stallion's hoarse neigh, he called,

"We've been summoned, Lass. We're going t' war."


	57. 57: As Luck Would Have It

Thanks, Bee. Short one. =) Edited.

**57: As Luck Would Have It**

Fate takes shape in mysterious ways, whether nudged or not by certain beset quantum entities. Thunderbird 1 reached Island Base first, as much a grim ghost ship as the infamous _Mary Celeste_. Flown remotely by Jeff Tracy, she sank into her concrete-and-metal berth silently, on three-quarter impeller. No one to greet her but maintenance bots, no one aboard but computers.

Thunderbird 2 arrived like the _Flying Dutchman;_ devastated by circumstance and barely able to navigate. Her second safe landing (the first was in Halifax, to drop off her wounded civilian passengers) was accounted a miracle, very nearly resulting in heaps of scrap metal and four dead Tracys. But they made it, even managing to guide the Bird back to her waiting hangar.

Of her crew and pilots, Virgil was in the best shape, suffering no more than a few scrapes, bruises and muscle pulls, along with a draining exhaustion. Even so, he was worn to the bone. Might have floated in oceans of strong coffee, never regaining full energy.

Scott's hands were burnt, with here and there black streaks and layers of red, peeling flesh. He, too, was weary, but too much in pain to relax. Gordon had re-injured his shoulder, and would certainly have to answer for it to Dr. Bennett… but Alan came home with pride-of-place in comparative battle scars. Thanks to the earthquakes, the would-be racer had cracked his tailbone and partially dislocated his right hip, making it difficult to walk or stand, and sheer torture to sit. For quite some time thereafter, Alan had to carry a pillow and bar-stool about, and his true apology, when offered to Lucy, was heartfelt and genuine. Possibly, he'd learned something.

All four needed rest and attention, which was where Linda Bennett came in, through the arrangements of John. Around the same time that he was overseeing the rescue of Penelope's servants (rough going, as they didn't consider themselves to be captive, and put up quite a fight, especially the driver) and the meeting in Lima (which ended badly) John summoned his favorite doctor.

Up to that point, Kyrano and Lucy had been caring for the injured young men as best they could. Why not take them to a doctor from New Zealand or Tahiti? Because Jeff couldn't come up with a believable explanation for the state of Scott's hands, Gordon's gun-shot scarred shoulder, Virgil's beat-to-crap look and Alan's wrenched pelvis _all at the same time._ Especially with Tracy Aerospace so much in the news.

Concerned about awkward questions, needing to hurryback to Corporate Headquarters and take control of this mess, Jeff OK'd Linda's return to the island. After all, she'd been there before, and shown total restraint in the matter of Gordon's strange injury. She was also John's friend… maybe more… and Jeff trusted his second son's judgment.

Ordinarily, no astronaut flight surgeon would have been so free to flit off, but the Tracys had a great deal of influence with the World Space Agency. Money… as the vulgar saying went… talked, and right loudly. She arrived in Papeete the next day and was claimed by John, who whisked the short, brown-haired doctor away to Jeff's private paradise.

If he'd expected a joyous reunion, the blond astronaut was disappointed. Linda was remote to the point of chilliness. She scarce spoke three words at a time and looked… different. Not yellow-eyed, or anything (after all that had happened, you can be sure John made certain). Just flushed and… filled-out, somehow. Face rounder; or something like that. Mystery to him, at any rate, and not as important as whether or not she'd play ball and keep still about his brothers' oddly-got wounds.

She'd brought a medical bag and a single blue suitcase, accepting John's swift cheek-kiss out on the steaming black tarmac without any comment. Weird, considering what had happened on her last visit... He asked about events in Houston (always a swamp of favors and politics) and received a few grumpy, brief answers before giving up to just fly. Linda seemed to prefer it that way; staring out the window at long, translucent-green rollers and making occasional trips to the head. In this manner, they got to the island and airstrip. It didn't take long, for the private jet was a sleek, top of the line model, and John an excellent pilot.

He landed with only two squealing bounces, to find Kyrano already waiting; a beaming smile on his smooth, gold-skinned face. TinTin's father would have taken the suitcase, but John had been raised on ranch and farm. He wasn't too good to heft and sling luggage. _Did_ let Kyrano get the medical bag, though, and unfolded the plane's stairs into humid, hot, bloom-scented air. Besides sea-noise and wind, there was the clicking, settling aircraft and a constant screeching riot from the jungle which surrounded them. But Linda had been there before, and found little to say about graceful palm trees, black sand, bursting flowers and shifting, gold-spotted shade.

Pleased to be a gentleman at the moment (and honestly happy to see her), John helped the woman he loved down the Lear jet's boarding stairs.

"Watch the third step," he told her. "That's where the hinges are."

She smiled faintly and gave his hand a warm squeeze; not angry, then. Headache, maybe? Females got those, sometimes. Choosing to think so, he guided her into a largish electrical car and then stayed safely quiet. Kyrano welcomed the pair, then drove them up to the house using the switch-backed mountainside trail. Behind them, an army of mechanisms scuttled from hiding to take care of John's plane, like ants swarming the corpse of a bird.

He'd put Linda in the forward passenger seat, taking a spot in back for himself, and turning to stretch out his long legs. He was still trying to think how to explain what had happened, when Kyrano rounded the last bend and brought their slow, humming car to the house. John unfolded like a spring-mounted ruler and vaulted right out, coming around to open Linda's door.

"You okay?" he asked, because she looked kind of pale.

"I'm fine," she said shortly, looking away. "Just show me the patients and let's get to work. Remember MM-2068D, when you pulled nurse/orderly detail…? I might need you to do that again."

He nodded wordlessly, recalling the South Dome fire and all of those smoke-inhalation, burn victims he'd helped her to treat. By comparison, this was a cake walk with icing and punch.

"Just tell me where to stand and what to hold," he said to her, getting a smile from the out-of-sorts doctor. Then,

"Mister John, shall I place the lady's bag in her suite?"

"If you don't mind, Kyrano. Thanks."

John added a smile as an afterthought, because people liked that kind of thing. Then he turned to join Linda as she made her way across the tiled courtyard, through a whirlwind of spiraling petals and leaves to the door. Inside they went, and then down to the island's infirmary.

"What happened this time?" she asked him, striding through a hallway of rare woods and fine marble.

"Uh…" Now, what? He hated to lie, and none of the excuses he'd so far come up with made any sense. Time to fall back on the familiar. "Yeah. They weren't supposed to do this, but when things went wrong at the testing facility out in Nova Scotia, four of my brothers took off to see what they could do. They got hurt in the process, but…" sudden inspiration struck, "…if the boss isn't willing to help out when disaster strikes, nobody's going to keep working for him. Dad doesn't want it made public, because TA stock is already volatile. It's been trading below value for some time, and he doesn't want to scare the investors."

Linda frowned up at him as they stepped into an elevator of polished brass and carved malachite.

"Your family certainly favors a hands-on management style," she said. "Except for you, that is."

John shrugged like a man resigned to his limits.

"Can't take unnecessary risks," he reminded her. "I owe my soul to the company store, just like you do."

Linda winced. The WSA's aversion to daredevil astronauts was well known. Rock-climbing, sky-diving, surfing, spelunking, even long-distance running were prohibited, as were pets that could bite or spread germs. In short, when not risking death for professional reasons, they had to stay perfectly safe.

"Well, then, your father has _one_ sane, sensible heir. Too bad there aren't any daughters. Girls are smarter," she announced, not objecting when John stepped aside to let her first out through the whooshing brass doors.

She became entirely calm and composed once in the clinic; scrubbing and suiting up in silence, assisted by John. Each patient presented with a different set of symptoms and injuries, requiring unique sorts of treatment.

Virgil was easy; rest, recuperation, fresh dressings and Tylenol. He'd already received a deal of competent first aid.

"Mom," John explained, when Linda shot him a questioning look. "She's getting pretty good at this."

Linda nodded, amending her image of Lucinda Tracy from fragile concert-pianist to resourceful mother and field medic. Virgil Tracy was tougher to figure out; being a handsome young man with a football player's physique and a poet's gentle smile. He had wavy brown hair and warm dark eyes that did not much resemble John's.

Nice guy, though. Answered all of her questions politely, saying "yes, ma'am," and "no, ma'am", and accepting her lecture about letting the pros handle future workplace disasters.

Gordon, she was ready to throttle. All that hard work, undone, because one flighty redheaded athlete couldn't stay out of trouble. On the bright side, he apologized, and offered to fund a clinic for her, if she ever decided to go into private practice, sometime. (And, considering the circumstances...)

His muscle-bound shoulder was a mess; the partly-healed tissues strained to the point of swelling and fever. Linda gently manipulated and palpated the area; taking several scans before prescribing anti-inflammatory meds and slamming him right back into a soft-cast and sling.

"Next time," she swore, "I'll order complete medical stasis, with drugs and a cryo-tube. I can do it, pal. All it takes is a faked rabies diagnosis and a few well-placed bribes. Either way, if you fail to follow my advice and re-injure yourself, I'll resign as your physician. Someone else can sign the death-certificate. Understood?"

He nodded dubiously, saying,

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll try," but not really meaning it. _He_ didn't look much like John, either.

Scott, Jeff Tracy's heir, she'd seen many times on television. A tall man in his early thirties, he had black hair and vivid, arresting blue eyes that were twin to John's, and just like their mother's. His hands were bandaged and already starting to heal, which was good and bad. Good, because infection had been avoided and living flesh saved. Bad, because there was scar-tissue developing that would have to come off.

Fortunately, the Tracys' state-of-the-art clinic contained a gently effective debridement whirlpool. She had Scott immerse his injured hands in it three times a day, adjusting its meds to heal, anesthetize and stimulate skin-cell repair.

He answered her questions briefly and evasively, flat-out stonewalling on some of them. To Linda, he seemed short tempered and brusque; but burn patients are hardly ever polite.

Then she saw Alan, the youngest brother but one; handsome in a goofy-awkward sort of way, and the only other blond. His eyes were different, though. Rounder, and sky-blue rather than just about violet. He was also in a good deal of pain. Seven-and-a-half on the chart. Well, cracked tail bones and a torsion-wracked pelvis would do that to you.

The scans came back looking like a log had rolled over his hips, though soft-tissue damage was minimal, other than some hyperextension and tearing of the associated ligaments. The joint was realigned with the help of John and Kyrano, while Lucinda Tracy stood by with a slim hand on her youngest birth son's sweat-beaded forehead. Alan, too, received some light pain medication, and strict orders not to do anything strenuous. Heal on its own, it would, so long as he bucked the family trend and followed advice.

There was one other; a cherubic, smiling Eurasian toddler that Linda checked out, as well, finding him solidly average and a shameless young flirt. Richard, his name was, and she ended up giving him her stethoscope. Seven hours, in all, after a hurriedly scheduled, six-hour flight.

She was throwing up in the aluminum scrub-room sink when John came back in. Startled at first, he moved with the swift decision of a man who had many brothers. He held her brown hair for her, got a warm, damp towel and helped clean her face, afterward. Then fetched a bottle of ginger-ale.

"Works great on hangovers," he told her, stopping short when she took a brief sip and then staggered off to start spewing again. The entire white-and-silver-blue room was lurching and spinning like a warped carousel. Linda began to cry, hating herself.

"Hey," said John's flat voice and dark, weaving silhouette (his warm, steady hands). "Are you…?"

"Shut up!" Linda panted, staring at a metallic sink and dribbling water, listening to its musical rattle and swish. She'd have gone down the drain herself, if she could have.

"Because, the way you're acting…"

"Shut _up,_ John! Just leave me alone! I'm fine."

Except that she wasn't, and some weird, unerring instinct told him why.

"You're pregnant?" he asked, very quietly.

Straightening a bit, Linda scrubbed at her face, drank tap water and then turned round to drip and glare at him.

"I _said_, everything's fine!" she repeated, red-faced and very emotional. John looked calm, but interested. "Leave me alone. Your brothers are well-enough patched for me to take off. I'll be heading for Houston, first thing tomorrow."

"How? On an inner-tube? Commercial airlines don't land here, and I've got the only aircraft. Looks like you're stuck until I get the urge to fly, doctor. So… feel like talking things over?"  
Linda threw a towel at him, which John quite easily ducked.

"Stop smiling, Lieutenant," she snapped at him. "Nobody said it was yours!"

"Been with anyone else, recently?"

She turned broiling crimson, and shook her head, no.

"Then, barring parthenogenesis or any weird social experimentation, I seem like the best available candidate."

He dimmed the lights and led her (cranky and fuming) to a seat on the scrub room's long couch, which stood directly in front of the painted wood lockers. For some reason, the care with which he helped her to sit and eased off her shoes made Linda cry again, in a hopeless, confused sort of way.

"I'm n- not after anything," she told him, not sure herself what all of her feelings were. "I only c- came because you asked me to… and because you s- said please. I wasn't going to tell you."

"I know," John replied, stroking the sweaty brown hair from her forehead. "But I'm glad I found out. Question is… now what? Best case scenario, from my standpoint, is I ask you to marry me, and you say yes. Worst case, you decide to go it alone, tell me to keep the h3ll out of your lives and don't even let me send money. There's a few in-betweens… but I'm lobbying heavily for what's behind door number one."

Linda shivered.

"John, I can't think right now. You're kicking a dead horse. My head hurts, I feel sick… I was just throwing up and you want me to marry you. All because I came here to fish out some bullets, stayed for a beer and didn't have sense enough to say _no."_

John drew up a heavy armchair, legs squeaking across the tiled floor. Sitting down with a tired sigh, he said,

"Well, pregnant people have a tendency to vomit. That's a given. So I don't think this is the last time I'll witness you doing it, doctor."

In the dimness, from behind her screwed-shut, stinging eyelids, he seemed very close and protective.

"Plus, I'd have asked you, anyhow, and kept right on asking; until you finally wore out and said yes, just to shut me up. I told you before, I love you. That trumps everything else."

Maybe for him.

"What if it's only because you feel guilty? What if I'm just scared that when Saul finds out, I'll be out of the mission rotation and chained to a desk?"

According to the dry, crisp rustle of cloth, John shrugged. According to her forehead, he leaned down to kiss her.

"Whatever. Kids are fun and I don't feel guilty," said his calm, steady voice. "In fact, I'm happy that Junior's finally on her way. I've missed her."

So saying, John reached out to take Linda's hand and give it a squeeze.

"Whether you agree to marry me, or not, we're in this together, doctor." Moving their linked hands, John rested them atop Linda's belly. "All three of us."


	58. 58: Second Wind

The words are mine, the characters theirs... but you know all that. Thanks, folks. Re-edited.

**58: Second Wind**

_A slight flash forward-_

The new Drilling Machine was large and well armored. Bigger than the Mole, and considerably tougher, it harnessed the deflecting powers of dark energy to widen bore-holes and block the crust's heat and great pressure. Looked different, too, having a disk-shaped cutting face with many cross-angled blades, instead of a single large drill. Different enough that when the Machine was revealed… when reporters and pundits did their math… nobody's sums came up _International Rescue._ Undoubtedly, Brains was a genius.

The crew received a lot of airtime, which Cindy enjoyed, while Paul and Myrna did not. The Spectrum officer turned shy before cameras, falling back onto stock military phrases and blank 'help-me' smiles. The scientist merely felt crabby and out-of-place. The reporter, on the other hand, took a distinctly sardonic pleasure in turning the tables on their interviewers; often cornering these "enemy" newshounds with facts about their own stations and careers that they didn't want publicized. Cindy's comments and views were choppy and five-second edited as a consequence, but she didn't mind a bit. Small minds deserved a good roasting.

There were threats, though, from a group calling itself "The Cell". Terrorists and extortionists, they'd vowed that no mission to save the Earth's core would succeed, unless they were paid 55 trillion dollars. They claimed to possess the power to make and control earthquakes, thanks to Tracy Aerospace. Said that the tremors in Nova Scotia had been _their_ doing, and that further disaster would result if the sum wasn't paid within three days (just before the Drill Monster's launch).

Gave the heads of commerce and state at the World Trade Conference something to talk about. And, yes… Scott Tracy was present. No choice, really, as Jeff was busy at Corporate Headquarters, proving to a team of government auditors that his company had not, in fact, created that earthquake machine. He was also busy tracking John's intel; attempting to smoke out employees corrupted by the Hood's loathsome influence. A tough thing to do, for _that_ rot had spread higher and further than anyone realized.

John skipped a ground-breaking ceremony for the new testing facility, because _someone_ had to stay home and mind the desk, and because he was preoccupied with the fallout from two other situations. (Three, if you wanted to count Dr. Bennett.) Lady Penelope's servants were confined to a hospital ward, still raving that they'd been forced to leave against orders. The driver and maid… determined to "escape captivity"… had to be sedated. Necessary, because Aloysius Parker and Elspeth Morgan had already left a broad trail of split lips and blacked eyes, and the medical staff was demanding hazardous duty pay.

Half a world away, meanwhile, Marina Dos Santos lay in a hospital bed of her own; apparently trapped in a coma. She'd been shot, twice, but that wasn't what felled the young pilot. Rather, she showed every sign of having been used as a tool by the Hood. Didn't make any sense, though, because the monster was dead… wasn't he?

It was Jeff's intent to find out, a task he assigned to his third son, Virgil. The young man was busy with vital plans of his own. He decided to take a chance and send Gordon (who not only volunteered, but asked that TinTin be allowed to come) carrying a device that would broadcast Hackenbacker's blocking-signal. They'd used it before to end Gordon and Alan's hypnosis. Having worked once, why not again?

The pair would have to make two stops. First in London, under the watchful eye of Sir James Lambert-Beaumaris, the head of MI6. Then to Lima, where Lady Penelope remained with Eduardo Dos Santos, Marina's much wealthier relative.

So far, so good. Maybe. Would the fragile and cash-strapped world government be able to pay 55 trillion dollars to a lot of villainous terrorists? And would the economy survive such a blow, if it happened? Probably not.

Would the Cell make good on its threats, disrupting the Trade Conference and Core Mission? Almost certainly. Could Tracy Aerospace survive a close audit, even as Jeff struggled to root out the traitors and fend away wolves? Possibly. Tracy Aerospace was a vast and mighty corporation. If felled like a redwood, its creaking, splintering collapse would crush many smaller companies, and even a few minor nations. The stock market was going nuts as a consequence. Sheer nerves.

All of this was balanced like a pencil on its sharp graphite tip; capable of falling in any direction. What actually happened was this:

The last thing on Earth Scott Tracy needed was _more_ surging flood water. But that's what he got, in the Netherlands, on the second day of a trade conference billed as completely secure. Alarms roused him from the bed of his luxury suite. Shouting outside, doors banging, and his own grim bodyguards drove him onto the roof of an already swamping hotel/ convention center.

At times like these he was regarded as utterly passive and valuable cargo. A museum piece, that had to be moved to a place of safety, by guards who would knock him out cold, if they had to. They didn't.

Scott flexed his partly healed hands, dressed swiftly, and went along with his armed, head-set wearing guards; letting them whisk him to the roof. It was not yet dawn, but a sharp, briny wind had arisen, and Scott could hear the noise of an angrily rushing sea.

There were too many spotlights and circling aircraft for him to see any stars or the waters, below. Just the bulky bodies and all-vision goggles of his guards. He was Mister Tracy, their only concern. Just as, fifty feet away, Stavros Valianatos was the center of his own well-armed knot. Scott would have waved at the man and his blonde, pretty wife, but the movement would only have triggered shouts of: _"Sir, get down!"_ …and sharply drawn weapons.

He settled for nodding, instead. Stavros nodded back, holding his wife's hand.

"Sir, no signaling, please." Snapped Scott's chief of security. "It confuses the team. We need to be ready to move, just as soon as our transport arrives. Stick to the script."

Scott heard him over sea roar and stressed-building rumble, over the crashing wrack of tumbling vehicles, because he was wearing a head-set. No goggles, though. Like Valianatos, Springfield and Chen, he was simply to go where led, trusting to his men. Right. Just standing around like that felt decidedly odd to someone who normally ran things. It felt helpless and weak.

The building was shaking. He could sense it, transmitted up through concrete and girders. Up through the soles of his thousand-dollar shoes. A chilly dank wind bit, causing Scott to shudder. His chief of security stood nearby, snarling something into the mouthpiece of an almost invisible head-set, nervous as a cat in a yard full of sleeping hounds. He wanted out, _now_, but there were too many other noisy, light-swinging aircraft overhead. Tracy-One couldn't get close. Said Scott, more drily than circumstances warranted,

"This may come as a shock to you, Murphy, but there are people up there worried every bit as much as you are, and not about me."

The man turned to face him, goggle-lenses catching and flashing the lights.

"Sir, with all due respect, I'm doing my job. I don't care about anyone else, and right now, neither should you."

Scott sighed, feeling more helpless than ever. This time, everything that mattered was out of his hands, and he hated it.

"Understood, Murphy… but there were a lot of important people on the Titanic, too. Somehow, they sank, anyway."

Murph surprised him by grinning.

"Not my great-to-the-sixth grandma," he said, as the rushing grey sea mounted higher. "She made it off in one piece, Sir."

"Then I'm punching you for good luck," Scott smiled back. "Because your ancestors _float."_

Then, when a matter of precedence rose, along with the pale and reluctant sun,

"Stavros has his wife with him. They're expecting. They leave first, Murphy, and that's an order."

The ex-Navy Seal scowled, but obeyed, for Scott's tone was implacable. He would not leave the roof before sending friends and their family to safety. It wasn't his way.

In the gathering light, all he could see was a chaos of building-top islands, crowded with scrambling small people and surrounded by grey, churning water. _Rising_ water. Scott's mouth felt tanned by salt and wind. He could hear windows shattering, and the weird, thrumming music of seawater pouring through glass-rimmed holes. Over that, the stuttering roars of many sleek helijets. One of the craft darted low enough to fetch Valianatos and his pregnant wife, Crystal.

The man beckoned urgently to Scott, mouthing that there was space on his transport for one more, but Scott shook his head. Despite his own danger, he wouldn't leave Murphy and the others. So, the _Eos_ zipped upward without him, almost striking a news chopper in the process. Avoided the other helijet, but nicked the side of a building and then lost control, barely managing to wobble and auto-rotate onto another packed roof.

In seeming slow motion _Eos_ touched down and heeled over, blades grating concrete like parmesan cheese. Sparks flew. There was a distant crunching sound, and the small ants of that swamping island scurried away from the aircraft.

Scott's fists were clenched. He swallowed convulsively, listening as police-craft zoomed overhead, roaring that everyone should remain calm and wait patiently for rescue. He couldn't see whether anyone got out of the fallen _Eos._

Several helijets tried, but it was a Coast Guard skiff that finally saved Scott and his bodyguards, plucking them off of the roof just in time. There were other boats, too. Surely, in one of them, Stavros and Crystal… with the rest of their people… were safe, wrapped in blankets like Scott. Surely.

XXX

_Midworld-_

Sir Arnulf rode away from the rest of the men, cantering up on a big sorrel stallion to Join Gawain and Britte. The day was cold, clear and biting, and snow flew from the hooves of their mounts, while breath-vapor misted about them like veils.

They rode by the ice-rimmed Humber, so as not to miss meeting the boats. Somewhat behind rode the house-carls, thanes and commoners. But the other companions were ranged up ahead, scouting.

Gawain swallowed what he'd been chewing and leaned from the saddle to hand the rest of his bread to Chester, who took and munched it contentedly. Like a horse, the centaur required much feeding.

Said Arnulf, once Gawain had washed down the mouthful with a pull at his ale flask,

"Milord and, er… Britt… fair day t' you."

"And t' you, Sir Arnulf," Gawain responded, with a nod. He didn't mention the house-carl's near slip over Britte, whom all supposed to be merely disguised. "What's the trouble?" (For the large, shaggy man wore a look of definite worry.)

"Well, with Your Lordship's permission…"

"Say on, and spare nothin', Arnulf. 'Tis better t' know, than be caught with one's breeches at half-mast. That is…" He was trying to sound less provincial, as the court at Rhees was reputedly elegant. "I would rather find out now, than learn t' my cost, later."

Tickled by the exaggerated care with which Gawain was speaking, Britte smothered a chuckle. Arnulf, however, seemed grim as the gallows and rack.

"Then, by your leave, lord… The men are beginning t' question why you must ride so far ahead of them, rather than under the banner of Falkirk. They murmur, lord, despite all my raging and threats. Soon, I'll be forced to cut the tongue out of one of them, just t' make an example."

"And what're they murmuring, then?"

Arnulf looked nervous. Oddly so, for a man so big and well-armed, with glinting gold arm-rings and bright-polished mail. Britte had stiffened, sensing possible mutiny. But all Arnulf did was shake his head and keep speaking.

"Some whisper that you're a fey, beardless warlock, who durst neither ride beneath Falkirk's banner, nor wear her ring."

Gawain considered. Then,

"If by warlock, they mean sorcerer," he said, sparking and cupping a brief flare of mage-fire. "Then they're correct, after a fashion. Though an _evil _one, nay. No. They say always 'yes' and 'no' at court, don't they? Right, then… Evil, I'm not. But as t' the banner and ring, I am a servant t' the Lord of Battle and Flame. I may wear no other sign but his, so long as that service continues."

Arnulf frowned in complex, meaty thought; struggling with the thorny notion of a lord who was also a servant. Well… did not thanes and great earls attend on the high king? And was not this accorded a very great honor?

"What of your sons, milord?" asked the hulking blond fighter, at last. "Will they be held t' the same strictures?"

_Unlikely,_ thought Gawain, as he couldn't get sons on a phantom. But before he could frame a proper response, the broad, snowy vale was rent by a thunder of footfalls, shouting and wing-beats.

Ahead, racing hard from the south, were Voreig and Glud. A riderless Dapple plunged and screamed at their side, floundering over tall snowdrifts. Above them, a thing like a black-feathered dragon twisted and wove. Allat, protecting the three from something far worse.

A flight of ravenous griffins had come. The beasts were enormous, with a wingspan of fifty feet, brazen talons and beaks, and rust-coloured, razor-tipped feathers. Their call, as they swooped from the sky, was a shrill and rattling screech. Britte drew her knife, handing it to Chester when Gawain tossed her his short-sword.

"Mind y'r steeds!" he shouted. "They'll be after th' horses and centaur!"

Fifteen of them, it looked like; red-eyed, savage and hungry. They circled and dove from above, dodging Allat. Striking to part horse and rider, the griffins hoisted shrieking men high in the air and then snapped the flailing unfortunates in half. Gawain launched a volley of fire-bolts. Then the fight was upon him, and he'd no more time for magicks.

Screaming, cawing and flapping, lashing with lions' and eagles' feet both, a griffin-hen plunged at Gawain and Blanchard.

"No!" he commanded, when the warhorse attempted to rear up and strike with its hooves. "Down, sirrah, before you're gutted for cats' meat!"

Using his spear, the knight stood in his stirrups and thrust violently upward; fending off that storm cloud of razor-edged feathers and claws. She snapped at the long, steel-tipped pole, her brass beak scraping on ash wood. Missed, but so did he. So, rather than thrust, he slashed sideways, whipping the barbed point across the beast's head. One of its wings lashed down and across, but Britte chopped at it, striking a chip from the clawed, curving bone. It uttered a rasping caw and flapped slightly upward. Blanchard's neck snaked out. He got a mouthful of dark flight feathers; Gawain, a long, shallow scratch to the helmet.

He directed the horse with his posture and knees, bidding it stay down, presenting nothing but metal and knight. A weird, warbling howl had arisen; not a griffin sound, or human, either, but Gawain could not look around at the moment. All he could do was fight.

Then something dropped from the sky above him. A despairing and churning silhouette. Reacting instinctively, Gawain lowered his lance to sketch a fast sigil. The armoured man stopped falling. At least, until Gawain was knocked from his saddle.

He crashed to the snowy ground in a tangle of metal and limbs and cruel talons; feeling the jack-griffin's claws scrape his hauberk and surcoat. Failing to quite snag its prey, the beast screamed and pumped upward, again. The wind was slammed out of Gawain, but he forced himself upright regardless, leaping to seize Blanchard's bridle. Nearby, the other man twitched, but couldn't rise.

Chester and Britte fought close alongside, as did Voreig and Glud. Ice-bolts sizzled and cracked from the south like purple-dark lightning, flash-freezing one of the griffins. It shattered in midair like a dropped icicle, hissing slivers of frozen blood.

Gawain got a lucky thrust upward. His spear skewered the breast of a stooping griffin, smashing through feathers and leathery flesh to splinter the bone-cage beneath. It wasn't dead, though. Not yet. He grounded the butt of his lance and hung on, though the weapon twisted and jerked, nearly wrenching his arms from their sockets. Might have called spells and insults, too. Couldn't be certain.

The dying griffin lashed with its talons, snatching at Gawain and Blanchard. Then something furry and big slammed into the beast, cracking the ash-wood spear and tearing through the lion-bird's throat. There was no respite. No time to think. Another griffin dropped from the sky, held off by Glud so that Gawain might yank forth his sword and bring up his shield. Striking like a serpent, the griffin drove its beak through the metal-bossed shield, piercing lime-wood and leather and thrusting for his chest. Just in time, Voreig's axe swung around and bit deep, all but severing the lion-bird's head.

Everywhere, men shouted and horses screamed. A wolf howled. Ice-bolts hissed, while the griffins gave vent to their loud, rasping cries. Wings beat and sharp, curving beaks struck at lances and swords. Gawain vaulted back onto Blanchard, was steadied by a quick, bracing clasp from Chester.

Then more riders came. Six of them, galloping hard from the south, all of them clad in stark white-and-red. _One_ paladin might not survive an encounter with fifteen ravening griffins. But seven of them? The Order entire? That was another matter completely.


	59. 59: Strange Days

Thanks for reviewing, Bee, Tikatu, Sam and Mitzy... and for the advice about barstools for Alan, Mitzy. I hope to write a bit more tomorrow, between Mass and a quick visit home.

**59: Strange Days**

Was he making decisions or remembering the future? Sometimes, John couldn't be sure of the difference. Not that it mattered much. Either way, the news he hadn't wanted to get caught up with him that morning, delivered through his desktop monitor by the doings of Five.

He hadn't slept much the night before, because sleep was a wasteland of unconscious imagery and poorly-used time. He'd have done without it entirely, if he could have. Still did the usual morning stuff, though; visiting the restroom to shave, brush and shower… coming back to kiss Linda's forehead, earning a growl and sleepy, impatient swat… then slipping out of the guestroom and back to work, where crises sprang eternal. (Mostly because of him.)

Bottom line: John Matthew Tracy was out of place. A long time ago (maybe) he'd been safe in the slot he belonged to. What Five would have called his "home locus". Then, on a trip to Mars with that reality's version of the WSA, he'd imported Five to the spaceship and run into trouble. Aliens, he thought… but not the Mysterons. Something else. Something deadly, self-replicating and highly infectious. Something which had forced Five to shift him sideways, into the slot of a parallel John, displacing the poor S.O.B. to God knows what fate.

Except that the problem hadn't been solved, but transformed, and not into a simpler calculation, either. It had just gotten bigger and added more variables, causing shift after God d*mned shift, until he had more pasts than were humanly possible, and a history knotted like old, cast-off fishing line. Until he couldn't guess his own age, anymore.

Now Five, through the monitor screen, had delivered news of the very worst kind. His current locus was unstable, she told him; its fate increasingly warped by the presence of John and his homebrewed quantum computer. On top of all that, the parallel locus she'd linked to and stirred up was planning some kind of attack. Not good.

The quick fix was simply to leave; hauling his sack of chaos and shredded d*mn karma someplace else. Only, he liked it here, and the otherverse folk might still be able to mend this world's trouble… if they didn't decide to attack, first. Five wasn't certain how the AI of that realm meant to strike at them. Just that it _would,_ and soon.

Weird thing was, Five kept insisting that the parallel world had somehow been sparked by a game. As if new worlds sprang up from thought and prolonged imagination, like mathematical proofs or a good, air-tight computer program. Formally undecideable question, he figured, because the "author" could never quite travel to such a created world, being forever outside of his newly programmed dimension.

Here and now, birds fluttered, chirped and cawed, while dawn squinted in past the windows' polarized glass. Here and now, Five was awaiting his answer.

"Keep talking to the other side," he told her at last, sitting back a bit in his chair. "Promise them that we're through interfering, but don't let them sever that link. Not until they've solved the core problem. Understood?"

_'John Tracy input noted. John Tracy will remain in current locus if and only if referenced instability does not exceed acceptable parameters.'_

Right. He thought of his brothers and parents. Of Linda and his just-budding daughter. In their case, "instability" meant destruction and death, while he was whisked off to safety, once more. John shook his blond head, looking not much at all like a wrecker of worlds.

"It's this one or nothing, Five. I'm through running. Find a way to make things work, or I'll take a last breath, fasten myself to the railing, and go down with the ship. I mean it."

She accepted the statement with a sober, violet-tinged screen-flash that extended beyond left-right into future-past-other. Meaning she could touch his thoughts and emotions a little. Best real world analogue was a gentle shoulder rub. He needed it, too, because everywhere else, there was trouble in great, heaping spades.

Scott was still in the Netherlands, refusing to leave until he'd seen to the safety and resettlement of a quarter-million refugees. Until he'd personally handed Stavros and poor, shaken Crystal out of their crowded lifeboat and onto a Coast Guard cutter. He could have gone straight home after that, and probably should have, but perceived retreat on the part of Tracy Aerospace… or Omega Petrochemical… Omni Entertainment… Springfield Pharmaceutical… Ch'in Electronics… would have sparked a panic on Wall Street. They stayed on site, all of them; meeting as scheduled in a big, canvas tent with sharpened pencils and damp yellow legal pads.

At Corporate, meanwhile, Jeff found himself back to back with Albert Jenkins and Leisha Bonaventure, all but physically besieged. Memos were 'lost' and emails rerouted. Phone calls mysteriously dropped. Jeff could communicate safely only through the darknet and virtual private network that John had set up, but even then he kept it coded and short.

Smoking out the traitors took up most of his time and his energy. The rest went to calming investors and soothing the government auditing crew. No doubt wonderful people at home, here they were out to capture and slaughter a scapegoat.

Jeff empathized with WorldGov's need to seem effective, but he intended to stay the h3ll off that chopping block. Let them find someone else. He'd worked too hard and sacrificed too much to lose the company, now.

Back home, Virgil wanted the Cell brought to justice. Innocent people had died in that earthquake attack and the Netherlands flood. They were gone; while the Cell's mysterious leaders were not only free and unpunished, but laughing at Interpol's efforts to catch them.

They had to be stopped, forcefully. But the question was, _how_? What could Virgil Tracy do that Scott with his weapons-grade business sense, or John, with shark-like hacking skills, couldn't manage?

Deep in thought, he'd sent Gordon off to first collect TinTin and then head out for London. The red-haired young swimmer was still somewhat strapped up and medicated, but over the moon at rejoining the beautiful girl, who was wearing his ring and a very bright smile.

At Charles de Gaulle airport they kissed as though years, and not weeks, had split them apart. The buzzing and surge of the crowd, blaring announcements and muted engine roar faded to nothing. Understandable, because when you're in love, all that matters is the person held bruisingly close in your arms.

Eventually, they pulled apart just a bit; kisses mingling with talk, and caresses with plane-ward meandering. He'd met her in public, but escorted the girl to the Tracys' private hangar-complex for the flight out to London. There was much to be told. That he loved her, of course. Wanted her like food and drink and the sunlit ocean. But also that he'd wait until TinTin was finished with University and ready for… Couldn't quite say the word "marriage", but he touched the ring and she nodded, smiling shyly. Everything's easy when you're young and in love; when all stories end with a passionate kiss, flavored like bubblegum, Chap-stick and warm, happy tears.

Certainly the cross-channel flight went quickly enough. John helped to orient them, as did landmarks like flaring white Beachy Head and the mouth of the Thames. They hadn't much luggage, because anything they didn't have with them could be easily bought, and what really mattered was already present.

There was a car waiting. Gordon and TinTin were met on the tarmac by a certain Beaumaris, director of MI6 and friend of the newly reactivated Penelope. Seems she had quite a number of "friends", who mostly preferred not to talk to (or hear of) each other. Didn't matter to Gordon, so long as Penelope got a handle on the situation in Lima, keeping Marina Dos Santos safe until TinTin could heal her.

The weather in London had gone strange and fierce. More chaos to blame on that rapidly fading core. All season long, there'd been sudden squalls and wild hail storms in a damp, windy summer that never quite warmed.

Inside the private hospital, things were more British and orderly. Let nature have ever so many fits outside; all was chemically peaceful within those sparkling white halls. As brittle, rigid Beaumaris stood guard by the door, Gordon unpacked the signal-generator, which fit into a specially shielded nylon flight bag. He'd decided to try the device on Penelope's driver, first. Parker, the man's name was. He had a sly, feral look to him, even in drug-induced slumber, and they'd strapped him down like a prisoner.

A medically talented operative administered some sort of wakening brew by injecting it through Parker's IV hook-up. Five seconds passed. Ten. Then the driver exploded awake like a grey-haired and hook-nosed old badger caught outside of its den. Quite the colorful wordsmith, he was, and terribly strong.

They'd have had to summon a team of orderlies to help hold the furious man if Gordon hadn't set up and switched on that signal. A horrible noise blasted forth; filling the room like a sack-full of sirens and deeply offended wild cats. Had to be tuned a bit, because everyone's mind was different, and because the Hood's vicious influence had been filtered through several go-betweens.

TinTin did her best to be soothing over all of that sharp, squealing noise. The signal affected her oddly, having been copied from her mind and that of Kyrano. Hearing it made her feel anxious and jumpy, as though her uncle was nearby in hiding. Her heart pounded and her breathing came faster, but she managed to focus on the raging, tossing figure strapped to his juddering bed. She refused to weaken or bend because what her uncle had done, TinTin meant to repair. _A nous deux maintenant!_ She thought bravely. _Bring it on._

So she gritted her teeth and focused on peace and warm soothement; twining her will to the machine's noisy signal. Seconds later, Parker stopped shouting and struggling to lie there in panting confusion.

"'Ere, now…" he whispered, "what's all this?"

His transformation from rabid, spittle-flinging madness to exhausted calm startled even TinTin, who'd worked in his mind to help cause it.

"Monsieur," she said, "You've been unwell, but all is righted now."

Parker tried to sit up, then; only to be balked by those tight nylon straps.

"What about loosin' these bonds… there's a luv… and next you can tell me what's become of 'Er Ladyship and Morgan."

He didn't know quite what had happened, but news, weak tea, his own clothes and the recovery of Elspeth soon bettered all that. Parker wasn't content with mere freedom, though. Just like Virgil, he wanted a shot at the cause of all this. He wanted a chance to help take down the Cell.

"We're headed for Lima, next," Gordon told the pair, once Elspeth Morgan was fit to sit up, come in and take tea. Nodding at Beaumaris (who was eying the packed-away signal device) he said, "I'd invite you along, but I'm guessing that Mr. Beaumaris has some questions for you."

The older man nodded slightly, inclining his sleek silver head.

"Quite a number, actually," he admitted, "along with an itch to examine that contraption of yours."

"It is needed elsewhere, Monsieur," blurted TinTin, exerting (perhaps) a bit of influence. "There are others, similarly afflicted, who have yet to be helped."

The excuse was a thin one, and from Gordon it wouldn't have worked, but TinTin was delicate, pretty and very persuasive.

"As you wish," said Beaumaris, smiling at her, "but I shall expect the pair of you in my Downing Street office by Thursday next, along with this useful device. Have we a bargain, young lady?"

TinTin agreed, of course; thinking that Captain Dos Santos would be healed by then, and that Lady Penelope would come back to help manage their brush with British Intelligence. Bit optimistic, as matters turned out. But so they'd been all along.

Elsewhere, the Drilling Machine had been disassembled and sent amid swarms of decoys to the selected target site. Its crew departed with equal secrecy and many more tightly-strung nerves.

Brains went along, too. He could certainly have helped run things as well from Manhattan (where the stubborn-wheeled chair was now up by twelve points) but he wanted to stay close to Myrna. Or, as close as he could.

Ten miles across the surface of the earth was not far. Ten miles through the crust was an almost impassable nightmare. And all she'd have to protect and assist her would be a shy young officer of doubtful utility and a sharp-tongued reporter.

Needless to say, Brains worried. That the mission would be sabotaged (for the 55 trillion hadn't been paid). That a Cell-triggered earthquake would smash the drill's bore-hole. That the shielding he'd rigged simply wouldn't hold up.

If he could have, Brains would have taken Myrna's place on the core mission; he loved her already that much. But Dr. Sanderson was a proud woman and completely professional. Just as the Drilling Machine was _his_ baby, that plasma generator was hers. She wouldn't let anyone else try to operate the device, which required a great deal of coddling.

"But I'll be back," she told him, smiling at the awkward, lanky engineer. "I have faith in your work, and in mine. We're going to succeed, Hiram."

"Ike," he corrected her, as they stood talking in the cramped dormitory passage. "My n- name is Dwight, but my friends c- call me Ike, and, ah… and I'd l- like you to do the s- same thing."

Myrna's slender dark eyebrows lifted at that, but she didn't pry.

"Ike, huh?" she mused, cocking her head. "I can see that. It suits you better than Hiram. Tell me the story when all this is over?"

"A- Absolutely," he promised; with perfect happiness just twenty-eight days, and one deadly mission, away.


	60. 60: Game and Circumstance

Whoa. It's insanely late/ early, and I promise to edit after work, tomorrow. Thanks for last chapter's reviews. :) Will reply soon.

**60: Game and Circumstance**

_Tracy Island-_

Virgil had a plan; one even he had to admit was monstrously risky. For this reason, he let the others go on about their more open missions… Jeff to New York, Scott away at the flooded Trade Conference (safe, thank God), Gordon to Lima, and John at the desk with plenty of pizza and headache pills, Alan recovering.

Right, then. If called upon to explain himself, he might have sounded a little defensive, but here's what Virgil would have told you, leaning forward in the chair, hands loosely clasped between his knees, warm brown eyes locked onto yours. Here's what he told _himself,_ and almost managed to justify:

He'd been kidnapped by the Hood's minions, then drugged and interrogated by Belaghant, himself. Been subjected to the villain's best efforts at long distance mind control. What had actually happened, what the Hood had succeeded in doing to him, they couldn't know. Nobody could, because he hadn't told them.

Anyhow, suppose that Virgil were to root out and contact one of the Cell's shadowy leaders, claiming to be a newly awakened sleeper. A mole in Tracy's own midst. Would they believe him, possibly letting Virgil in on their tactics and schemes? Made sense to son number three… although he wouldn't want to explain it to anyone else. Scott would have called the idea too dangerous. John would have pointed out a hundred potential flaws. Their father would simply have thrown it out with a gruff, snappish no. Maybe they'd have been right, but Virgil Tracy had friends to avenge and a family to guard, so he kept his mouth shut and went quietly forward.

The Brazilian defense minister had threatened Jeff Tracy when he came for his rescued son, hinting that Virgil's father ran International Rescue. Didn't make him for certain one of the Hood's scheming henchmen, but seemed like a pretty good place to start fishing.

Virgil thought fiercely and long on the exact wording of his message to Senhor Da Costa. It had to hint, without offering too much information that could later be proven wrong. It had to sound like a newly activated brother-in-arms, cautiously seeking his allies. Then, without dad finding out, the message had to be sent and contact made; secrets offered in return for a place in the Hood's stripped-down, disaster-purged hierarchy.

That's what Virgil reasoned, at least. The musician plays the song, but music moves and directs its player, placing his fingers and guiding his thoughts. Maybe the notion was entirely Virgil's. Maybe not. At the time, it didn't occur to him even to wonder. For what seemed like very good reasons, he kept the plan private and sent Gordon away, setting things up for a self-imposed mission of vengeance.

Alan, meanwhile, was bored and in pain; never a good combination. Everyone else was busy or gone, and his hip and back felt like he'd been used as the ball in a game of elephant soccer. Plus, he could only stare at pictures of his (just bought, with John's money) beautiful race car for so long. He'd wanted the number to be 69, but John laughed and said _no_. Not on any vehicle Mom, Grandma or TinTin might be looking at. Ended up being 42, for some dumb reason only John seemed to think was funny.

So, yeah… Alan had loads of time on his hands, what with Gordon and TinTin off touring the world. He turned to his Playstation Nano by way of non-TV-scare-tactic-news entertainment. But something weird had happened in the world of microchips and physics engines.

The RPG scenario he'd been developing for Gordon, John and TinTin (if he could talk her into playing) had gotten messed up, somehow. Maybe he'd dropped the game system, or one of his brothers had gotten hold of it?

Anyhow, Alan figured that it wouldn't take very long to fix things. So, that afternoon, with WNN turned way down low for coverage of the Core Mission and Trade Conference, Alan sat/ leaned on a barstool in the family room and rewrote his game. Cherry soda close at hand, sunlight streaming in through the windows and ten-thousand wild new ideas springing up for ways to torment his brothers. Seriously, back pain aside, what could be better?

Scott called once, and Gordon returned a few texts. Kyrano glided in from time to time with more sodas and snacks. Lunch, too, but Alan mostly ignored the healthy stuff. Mom brought Ricky in to say hi and give him big, sloppy kisses. Other than that, life was all about clicking and coding, monsters, treasure and traps.

He thought of something really awful (but maybe survivable) to throw in for Gordon's character, too. Thought he was a lord, now, huh? Well, Alan could fix that, with twelve lines of code and a pirate ship.

Out in the real world, several decoy missions had been sent to places like South Africa, the Mariana Trench, Rift Valley and Stone Mountain, Georgia. All of them with Drill Machine mock-ups and dead-ringer "crews". But the real thing was delivered to Yellow Stone Park in Montana.

There, magma plumes were nearest the surface and quickest to access. There, security could be hammered right down and nailed tight. Great thought. Should have been comforting, but Cindy Taylor still couldn't sleep. Instead of resting the night before launch, the reporter sat up and watched TV in the dorm common room. With her was Myrna Sanderson, who'd been quarantined and could no longer see Dr. Hackenbacker.

At least she had someone… Taylor could only boast a brief "good luck" message from Jake Hall, her boss. Some people might have gotten all weepy or religious at such a strained, lonely moment. Not Cindy. Rather than whining, she flipped through every available channel, telling Myrna all sorts of gossipy tidbits about the actors, politicians and media-types who flashed and chattered on screen like narcissist fireflies.

Turned out that Dr. Sanderson had spent a TV- and movie-free childhood as the daughter of missionary doctors in Central America. She didn't know John Wayne from Cassie Peak or Adam's right elbow, which made Cindy's jaw drop. Leaning away from Myrna on their cheap velour sofa, the reported mused,

"So… all of this is like me talking about the sex life of two-headed garden slugs on Venus?"

"Short," Myrna replied, with an amused little snort.

"What…?"

"Slugs on Venus. They'd have a very short, intense sex life, considering that it's 900 degrees over there, with an atmospheric pressure akin to…"

Cindy raised one hand and the TV remote, smiling a toothpaste-ad smile. She was an artificial-seeming creature with sleek dark hair and blinding white teeth.

"Okay, never mind the slugs," she laughed. "They're dead. Fried. And you grew up severely deprived, woman."

Myrna's head cocked thoughtfully to one side. She had her fuzzy brown hair caught up at the back with a chewed-up number two pencil, again. Yellow.

"You think so?" asked Sanderson. "It's never seemed that way to me. I had playmates who could teach me to bring down a monkey with arrows and blow-gun darts. I could tell you which plants will stop a bad dream and which can cure warts. I've paddled a dugout and caught malaria, twice… but I was nineteen years old before I went to a shopping mall or saw my first traffic jam. I didn't feel deprived, then, and prefer to concentrate on particle physics, now."

"Huh!" said the reporter, digging for facts. "Missionaries…? You don't seem the type."

"I wasn't. That's why I left Sharon and Patrick in Guatemala. My mother and father," she clarified. "All they wanted to do was preach supernatural drivel to the forest people. I wanted quantum-level truth. We had nothing more to discuss."

"Oh," remarked Cindy, at a momentary loss for words. "You keep in touch, though? Talk on the satellite phone once a week?"

Being adopted, herself, she was deeply absorbed by the concept of family. Myrna smiled, saying,

"I do receive the occasional Christmas card/ tract, which I sometimes remember to answer, but not often. I exist in a different world than Patrick and Sharon, and it's probably better that way."

Cindy considered. This close to zero-hour, with possible death so raw and nearby, it didn't feel right to rudely slash at somebody else's frigid lifestyle. Maybe next week, or the one after that.

"Do you think they know about this?" the reporter asked Myrna, gesturing around at their bleak tan dormitory and, by extension, the upcoming hazardous mission.

Dr. Sanderson shrugged.

"If so, they're praying," she said. "That's what they do."

…That's what a lot of people were doing, all over the world. Not just for the Core Team, but the mission itself; that somehow, the Earth's dynamo might be revitalized and humankind saved. Simultaneously, others were plotting sabotage, placing themselves at each possible dig-site with the tools to cause pain and destruction, all for the sake of a dead man.

Nor was that all. Out in Lima, things went wrong almost from the moment that Gordon and TinTin stepped off of their plane; starting with weather and ending in bullets.

XXX

_Midworld-_

In battle, you're too much caught up in your own situation… and a few immediate others… to gauge the way things are going. He'd been ahead of the rest, with Britte and Arnulf riding close alongside, when they were attacked.

Claws outthrust and wings folded, griffins dove down from above onto horses and men. They screeched like something maddened, lost and in pain. Their cries tore the air and panicked the horses, causing many to rear up and plunge.

Near midday, it was. The sun climbed high, and so did his strength. Linked to the sun now, Gawain filled up with more physical power than he knew how to manage, adding to all the confusion. Throwing aside the splintered stump of his lance, he was forced to use his sword and some rapid spell-work, and once, a smashing fist to the eye. Got back up on his horse, at least, without breaking the destrier's back in the process.

Beside him, Britte warded the left with Chester, while Glud and Voreig slashed and clubbed from his right. A sort of raised, out-of-self awareness rose up in Gawain, who all at once sensed the approach of his brother knights, along with the diving, swooping battle of serpent, wyvern and griffins, above. Tough to miss, that. Great clumps of fur, scales and feathers rained down on them all, dotting armour and snowdrifts with darkness and blood.

Alone, he'd have fought one way; perhaps covering the advance of that darting, fast-moving drow. His brethren were near, though, and that altered everything. He had a position, a place in the battle plan, from which to channel and amplify power. Didn't bother telling Britte to remain with the orc-brothers. She wouldn't have done so, as they'd rushed off to help defend Drehn, who'd been struck from behind.

The correct placement was vital, along with clarity of mind and an empty, emotionless heart. There was no place at all for friendship or worry when summoned to war by a god. There was only the fight, as he'd learnt to his cost once before.

Using his knees, Gawain urged Blanchard through the snow, sensing his position relative to Lot, Argonne, Kent, Merrick, Cuthbert and Ravencall. Talons of brass slashed from the sky, but he fended them off with swift, brutal cuts of a humming white sword and half a cracked shield.

Wind shrieked like the horses, cut at his face like sharp feathers. Barbed tails swept through the air like thorny dark vines. Gawain and Britte sliced many apart, suffering one or two blows that rang their armour like crystal and blackened the flesh underneath, nearly unseating them. Then he'd reached the right place, and so had the others, forming a shape like a complex and rotating star.

It was for Lot, his father, to speak the Word. He did so, into sudden dead calm and white stillness. The men of Falkirk and his own scattered companions would forget it at once, but Gawain could not, for the Word contained a very small part of his deity's name.

Power roared through the gathered knights like a windstorm, blue-white and searing, dreadful to hold in or wield. It connected their slow moving star and then rose from the level of bloodied snow like a crackling net. Caught in its strands, griffins sparked and exploded, dropping to the ground in a greasy shower of smoke and scorched feathers. But wounded men and horses were utterly healed, as were Allat and the coppery wyvern, above. Maybe Drehn, too, though the knight couldn't see him.

There was a whiteness inside him of staring too long at the sun. There was the waiting sharp edge of a sword, just having hissed from its sheathe. He was weapon and servant… with char-burdened wind in his face and somebody slapping his back.

"…quickly, Sir, or they'll kill him for sure. The horse has no voice they will listen to, Sir, nor has the dark elf!"

Reality was heavy, snow-drenched armour and kit. A girl's anxious face, smeared with ashes and griffin blood. Her pounding hand and tense whisper. Britte, that was her name… and somehow he'd married her, but wasn't supposed to admit it.

"Leave off, lass," he whispered back, as memory returned in fluttering bits and torn pieces. "I've not survived battle just t' be beaten t' death by _you._ Who's about t' be killed, and what for?" (After all, they might have deserved it.)

"The big golden wolf," she replied, squeezing her lord's mail-clad arm. Wolf…? Puzzled by scraps of half-recalled howling, he looked about, finally spying a circle of muttering house carls and warriors. At their center was Arnulf's roan stallion, standing protectively close to a pony-sized lupine with strangely flat features.

Startled, Gawain darted another quick look all around, counting heads. There were Glud and Voreig, stacking corpses…Drehn, standing deceptively still with Grayling, Dapple and Allat, the wyvern rattling and steaming beside them, its copper neck weaving… his brother paladins, still power-bleached and quite motionless… thanes and spearmen aplenty, but no Arnulf or Frodle.

The binding had slipped, leaving behind it a wretched and bloodied werewolf. There was one question answered. But of his halfling friend, he knew nothing. Gawain scanned the whispering air before sheathing his sword. One never knew, after all. But the frozen pale skies yielded nothing. Not a hair or feather of griffin remained aloft. Just fifteen smoldering, boulder-sized lumps in melted-out caverns of snow.

Murmuring to Blanchard, he lightly touched spurs to the beast and rode forward. Broke the star, doing so, which would hasten the waking of his brother knights. He'd have to be quick, then. Blanchard's big hooves crunched and scuffed across wind-sculpted snow. Gawain's chain-mail rattled, and his leather harness creaked.

"Stand away," he commanded, on reaching the edge of those ringed, thronging warriors. They obeyed at once, ducking their heads respectfully and murmuring,

"Milord," as though Gawain was Bretnoth, himself. Nothing like a close-fought battle against magickal beasts to convince them all of his right to the lordship, huh? No doubt they expected their still-sparking lord to dispatch the werewolf with fire from Heaven.

And, had it been evil, that's exactly what he'd have done. But Gawain knew Arnulf. Had feasted, got drunk and sparred with the man, sensing the curse which ancient bindings just barely held back. Here was no monster, then, but a warrior who'd forgotten his family's history.

Hemmed in by steel and fierce scowls, the transformed thane was bloody-mouthed and sad-eyed, and his forelimbs ended in something more like hands than a wolf's paws. The roan knew his scent, though, and wasn't afraid.

None of that mattered to Blanchard. Gawain had to dismount when the white stallion's grunts and rumbles threatened to turn into screaming and lashing. Experienced a bit of trouble with wolf-kind in the north woods, Blanchard had, and he wasn't forgetting it.

So Gawain swung out of the saddle well short of Arnulf, only to be joined on the ground by a pale, but determined Britte. Then the swift, streaking form of a black-masked ferret. Rather evened the odds, that… although one bite would spread Arnulf's curse to all but a priest or a paladin.

Hands open and visible, red cloak thrown back, he walked slowly forward. The big, crouching wolf-thing whined a bit, licking its short, toothy muzzle. It seemed confused.

"This, sir, is now way f'r a man t' greet the approach of his lord," Gawain remarked, as though he'd but caught the man passed-out cold in a puddle of stale mead.

The creature ceased crouching and rose, looking all about the ring of bearded and scowling men. The roan stallion grunted nervously, was answered by Blanchard, Chester and Grayling. Meanwhile, the werewolf took a shaky step forward.

"'Ware, Milord!" someone called out. Wiglaf, it sounded like. "The beast makes ready to strike!"

Someone else pushed through the ring, then. Ravencall, on his silver-white, soft-stalking tiger. Folk claimed that high-elves were soulless, and looking at the lord of Elfhame-in-exile, Gawain knew why. Ravencall seemed only half present; distant, cold and eerie as a star.

"What means this?" he demanded, in accented Common.

Gawain bowed slightly, out of respect to a brother knight far more experienced in battle.

"One of my men has been struck by the curse of his family," he said, as though such things were as commonplace as losing a tooth on the training yard. "Binding magick seems to have slipped."

Ravencall's lip curled very slightly. He'd have blasted the poor wight out of hand, obviously, just as he had no time at all for the ghosts of men.

"There is no cure for such curses but death, or the will of a deity," the elf reminded him. "If this one has found no favour with the realms above…"

"I will vouch f'r his honour," Gawain interrupted. "I know the man well. He has sworn t' serve me."

Just as his lord was sworn to protect and support a vassal, whatever his troubles. Tricky situation, to say the least. The werewolf's head lifted. Very slowly, he padded toward Gawain, tail neither tucked-in, nor wagging. Close to, he smelt like beetle-chewed pelts and hot metal. Not at all natural. He left deep prints in the snow, and his slanting gold eyes never left Gawain's face.


	61. 61: Gathering Darkness

Hey, posted at a decent hour, for once! Here in the States, at least... Thanks for reviewing. This time, I'm actually awake enough to respond, and go read the posts of my friends. =)

**61: Gathering Darkness**

Scott Tracy returned from the World Trade Conference a weary and worried young man. Important decisions had been made and binding agreements signed, but there could be no doubt that the Cell had badly shaken things up. Literally attempting to sink the conference and kill its participants.

It almost seemed that they could move anywhere in secret, striking at will through a mob of cleverly planted sleeper agents; men and women who did not even realize what they'd been programmed to do until set off by mysterious signals. His father was having trouble with a few of these in New York, a situation he alluded to without really describing. Something about falsified, "leaked" company memos, the sort that could bring down corporations and land strong, wealthy men in federal custody.

These agents were hard to pinpoint until they struck, but a number of patterns were beginning to develop in Scott's mind, and Jeff's. Each identified sleeper, including the saboteurs from Brazil and the Netherlands, had experienced serious financial or personal trouble. A crack, of sorts, through which the Hood's influence could percolate. Pattern two, they'd each disappeared for a time; fallen out of contact with family and friends. It was then that the Hood had succeeded in working his poisonous will, Scott figured.

All of this was on his mind that afternoon, as he stepped off the company Lear and onto Tracy Island. Home, now, more than Kansas or Wyoming had ever been. The place where he and his brothers lived with their mother, dad, Kyrano and TinTin, and the place where his father's dream of a globe-spanning rescue team had at last come to life.

Now, breathing the warm, salty air and listening to raucous bird calls, Scott felt himself start to relax. Except for Detective-Inspector Sanji, no influence of the Hood's had ever touched them here. He and his family were safe.

"Any word from Gordon and TinTin?" Scott inquired, once he'd released the company pilots and climbed into Kyrano's white-and-green cart.

"Not yet, Mister Scott," the old man replied with a sad little headshake. "But my daughter is bold, and prone to forget the cautions of her father in the face of adventure and novelty. Mister Gordon, I am certain, will message you soon. He has done so quite often with young Mister Alan."

Scott nodded, relieved. One less thing, you know?

"What about dad?" he asked, as Kyrano keyed up a beeping, flashing alarm and then began backing their cart. "Anything new?" (He was bursting with news and details, himself, but wanted to hear of the others, first.)

"Only that he has thus far succeeded in preventing disaster."

And that was achievement enough, all things considered. Gravel crunched and rattled beneath the cart's hard rubber wheels. The motor whined mosquito-softly. Pedal mashed to the floorboard, Kyrano cut left, facing their vehicle jungle-ward. Behind them, the ocean rumbled and hissed, gnawing black rocks that a volcano had once given birth to. Before them, massive trees quivered and rustled, steaming a bit in the sunshine. This stretch of the island was densely forested; the other side nearly barren in places (and a much better site for Thunderbird 2).

Leaving such thoughts to Jeff's heir, Kyrano drove forward, taking a mountainside trail to the house. Under those wide-spreading giants, sunlight fought through in long golden shafts and then ceased altogether, baffled by many layers of rustling shade. Tension began leaking out of Scott like air from sagging party balloon. While the cart rattled and bumped its way upward, he shifted around in its passenger seat, searching in vain for a comfortable position. Long flight, sensitive back.

It had been very important to get home before the Core Mission launched, but all of that seemed pretty distant just then. Scott was half-asleep, answering drowsy nonsense to Kyrano's few comments, by the time they pulled up to the sprawling white house. Scott remembered this in particular as one of the last peaceful moments he was to have for a long time thereafter.

He made it to his room-suite, somehow; kicking his shoes off to collapse on the bed fully dressed and already snoring. He was _that_ tired. Could have slept for a week, probably, but didn't get the opportunity. Someone fussing with the window settings and then shaking his shoulder roused Scott from a dream about dinner and floods. Virgil, looking distracted.

"Huh? Virge, what's… what're… Right. _Stop_. M' wake."

Scott gave himself a brief, pithy pep-talk and then rolled over. After a moment of sorting reality from dream-stuff, he sat up, rubbing at his pillow-creased face and making the bed creak.

"You could've just used the wall comm," he accused, still bleary with frustrated sleep.

"We tried. You never answered, not even when Alan threatened to reprogram Thunderbird 1's playlist to nothing but show-tunes and rap."

Imagining the combination, Scott winced.

"D*mn," he said, rising. "I _was_ out of it."

Alan had nearly John's skill at programming, and less of a conscience where his brothers were concerned. He'd once cycled "The Girl From Ipanema" and "Feelings" on an endless loop through Thunderbird 4, just to get back at poor Gordon. Had to grow up sometime, though… right? On the other hand, something was clearly troubling Virgil.

"You okay?" Scott demanded, suddenly.

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" asked the former football player, standing big and broad as an oak in the room's programmed easy-wake lighting. He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt; the red kind that granddad had always favored.

"I dunno, Virge. Ignore me. I'm still pretty wrung-out."

Virgil clapped a strong hand to his shoulder and gave it a friendly shake, saying,

"You'll perk up at supper. Mom's made bacon mac-and-cheese in honor of your homecoming, it's _your_ turn to feed Ricky, and Kyrano refuses to approach the dining room until that "boxed-food abomination" is eaten up or thrown out. We'll be serving ourselves, tonight."

Scott smiled, because no matter what happened elsewhere, home rocked along just the same; safe, over-full and chaotic as a prairie-dog town. A few minutes and swift wash-up later, he ambled to supper with Virgil.

John arrived somewhat afterward, for he'd remained upstairs trying to puzzle out a cryptic message from Jeff. Not in code, or anything, but weird, just the same. Dealing with Ricky didn't help, needless to say. His little brother kept demanding to hear the same off-kilter version of the Three-Little Pigs (who fared very badly in John's retelling; their own fault for hiding indoors when they should've been kicking wolf a$$). Gist of the message was this: _John, remember that we have nothing to hide. At home, or anywhere else._

Was he referring to Linda, still in limbo while John worked out how much to tell her, his family and Houston? Or the audit crew, maybe, out in Manhattan trying to skewer the Tracys? Seriously, what the h3ll?

XXX

_Peru-_

Lima was dry and warm, or dry and cold, but _parched_, always. Sometimes a thin ocean fog drifted through, just enough to glaze the stones and the struggling crops. Sometimes a wind blew, savage and sharp as the blade of a killer.

Such a gale had blown up unexpectedly on the day Gordon and TinTin arrived, forcing the pair to divert to an unmanned alternate runway. Matters got a bit touchy flying between those jagged high peaks and the dark-swelling clouds, with bolts of wild lightning stitching the earth to the sky all around them. Tough spot for a private plane, no matter how modern or powerful. Their turbo-prop was small and the weather most certainly _wasn't_, but Gordon and TinTin managed to land, all the same; about seventy miles from their hired security team, near to that gale-spawning desert.

Having bumped safely to earth, Gordon was smart enough to abandon their plane for the emergency airstrip's radio transceiver shack, though the wind rattled and hammered at that, too. He just about had to feel his way there, holding TinTin's hand and crouching against an almost tornado-force blast. Dust and grit swirled, along with scraps of blown paper (somebody's advert or love letter, long since forgotten and folded away).

The shack's blinking green beacon dimmed almost to nothing at times, very much slowing his progress. But TinTin "saw" with other senses, and kept them on the right path when their beacon was lost in the furious windstorm. Otherwise, it was like skidding along on a high speed belt-sander; loud and abrasive. Hard to breathe, too, and just about blinding. A dry, searing blizzard of dust, sand and trash; stinging, raging and clawing.

Naturally, the door was locked, to prevent the curious and acquisitive from gaining access to the remote airstrip's guidance and beacon equipment. But TinTin touched the door gently and all at once the stubborn steel slab that he'd sworn and yanked at came obligingly free. Gordon would have felt useless, if he wasn't so bloody relieved.

No matter that the small, creaking shed they'd stumbled into was packed with humming machinery, or that its unshaded overhead bulb flickered and spat when invoked like a moth-smeared old porch-light. At least they were out of the wind.

Gordon blinked grit from his hazel eyes. Then he found TinTin a seat on some sort of faintly whining green box. Couldn't see very well, yet, but enough to kick several desiccated mouse carcasses away from the girl, who was draped in his Olympic swim-team jacket. There were water bottles in his backpack, along with a few flavor-and-vitamin packets to spike them up a bit.

She chose the cherry one, Gordon a particularly fiery ginger-lemonade. With shelter, drinks and each other they were happy enough. Things were asked and promised, kisses were gently delivered, but mostly they just huddled together and listened to a windstorm that wouldn't let up; hoping their Tracy Aerospace entourage arrived before the rattling shack blew away. (They were enroute, if he'd understood the driver correctly.)

Some hours later, TinTin fell asleep against Gordon's shoulder, half-curled like a kitten in the shed's musty dimness. He thought about calling home, but Thunderbird 2 was still undergoing repair, Scott homeward-bound, and Thunderbird 1 too wildly unstable in conditions like these for anyone else to fly.

Certainly not Alan, who couldn't sit down yet, and kept texting him smug RPG taunts which Gordon mostly ignored. Then his phone battery died, and that was the end of that. There was nothing left but the storm's weird music on over-stressed metal and wood. Pings and roaring. Sand grains hissing wherever they struck. All that, and a very long wait.

XXX

_Elsewhere-_

Despite attempted negotiation with the attacking world, interference had been exerted and changes made. This was a direct, power-wresting challenge, such as no god would attempt unless war was intended. But the Lord of Battle and Flame was well-supplied with creatures and allies, both on the world and above it… and "probability" worked both ways.


	62. 62: Instability

Sorry to be late, folks. It's been a long, strange two weeks, though this doesn't excuse letters unanswered and chapters unwritten. All I can say is, there were meetings and formal dinners, collapses and dramas. Life, y'know?

**62: Instability**

Influence exerted in one direction could be matched and returned, though not with finesse. In the one realm, an artificial intelligence existed. In the other, a powerful being whose chosen weapons were magick and war. Not the ideal tools with which to wage a cross-dimensional power struggle, perhaps… but all that Midworld could bring to bear against Five. In the end, it proved to be more than enough.

XXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

Dinner was partly salvaged from utter masculine chaos by the presence of Lucy, who exerted a civilizing influence over all of her sons but young Richard. The little fellow was still merry enough to find food-missiles extremely amusing. He also slopped purple Kool-Aid on Scott, whose turn it was to feed him. (And that was just the beginning.)

Bacon mac-n-cheese was consumed that night, along with peas, salad and ice cream, while everyone told something good about their day. (One of mom's firmest rules). Scott was just glad to be home safe, and said so. John had got all of his WSA paperwork accomplished, "on time and under-budget", as he put it.

Virgil couldn't think of much, at first. Then he talked about the birds on a power-line he'd seen once, and how (read the right way) they'd formed musical notes that inspired his latest sonata. Lucy smiled at the anecdote, being musically gifted, herself. She'd made progress on her idea for going public, and proudly shared some of the research on Good-Samaritan laws.

Gordon wasn't present, or dad, either, so Alan was left to fill in dessert time with talk of his future racing career. At least, he did until Lucy changed the subject. International Rescue was bad enough, in her opinion. She didn't want her second-youngest son risking his life for mere _sport._

Right. All that, a hurt back, and Alan didn't even _like_ bacon-mac. The food and injustice were practically choking him.

"Y'know," he said to the table at large, stirring sprinkles into his chocolate ice-cream, "I can't stay a kid forever, Mom. If I'm old enough to vote, drink and risk my dang life in a Thunderbird, maybe I oughta be trusted to drive on the stock-car circuit. I mean… if I could find the right car and a sponsor. _Right_, John?"

Positively the last thing his blizzard-blond sibling wanted was to be hauled into another family argument. He had better things to do than take sides. Still…

John sighed a little, then carefully wiped and set down his fork, afterward pushing away a mostly-full plate. The house mood music was playing something he didn't care enough to identify, while Rick whacked away at the mashed-up remains of his meal. Other than that, the room had grown alarmingly quiet. Everyone was looking at him.

"You didn't like me applying to the space agency, Mom," John pointed out, focusing solely on her.

"...Or me becoming a fighter pilot," added Scott, between jaw-cracking yawns.

"Said 'no' the first three times I asked to play football, too," put in Virgil, admitting ruefully, "...only I kind of wish now I'd listened. You were right, Mom. I _didn't _like it. But at least I got the chance to find out for myself."

Lucinda Tracy sat very erect and still at the table's head; her golden hair in a model-smooth upsweep, heirloom jewelry sparkling. Pointing at Scott, she said,

"Very well. I'll take these objections one at a time. You nearly died twice, Sweetie, after ejecting in midair from badly-shot aircraft. _You," _she went on, turning an accusing look at Virgil, "were miserable; only on the team because it made your grandfather happy. And as for John Matthew…" her beautiful face clouded up suddenly. "If your brothers hadn't launched in Thunderbird 3, you and your doctor friend would both have been killed in space by debris from the Moon Station."

Fighting for control of her stinging tear glands and wavering voice, Lucy kept talking.

"The point is, Alan… all of you… that we can't be lucky forever. Someday, the axe is going to fall, and fall hard. I just… I don't want to encourage needless risk-taking, is all. Alan, sweetie… Find yourself another hobby. _Please_."

Alan's face turned red. He struggled to his feet, almost making the heavy wood bar-stool tip over. Virgil caught it in time, though.

"Mom, I'm a grown man!" Alan blurted hotly. "I can pee standing up, tie my own shoes and cross the street without holding your hand! _Seriously…_ driving a dang race car in stupid little circles isn't that hard! One year! Let me try it for one year, Mom, and if I don't do anything stupid, wind up in traction or have to be rescued, you can let me keep going. One year. C'mon, Mom… you've gotta at least give me _that!_"

Alan was shaking, close to vexed tears himself, by this time. He didn't lose control, though. He had to act like a man. Like his brothers; tall, strong and trustworthy. Surprisingly, they circled the wagons and backed him up. Clearing his throat for attention, Virgil said,

"Out on the ranch, Granddad told me I could smoke and drink all I wanted… so long as I did it in front of him, instead of sneaking behind the barn like a coward. So I never did nuthin' crazy."

_"Anything_ crazy," his mother corrected absently. "We don't speak that way, Virgil. It's vulgar."

"Back to the point," said Scott, "Don't make Alan run off and take the same risk you're worried about, only without supervision and guidance, Mom. He really _can_ pee standing up. I've seen him do it a couple of times on camping trips."

Lucy winced. All of the raised voices and strong emotions had got Ricky throwing handfuls of ice-cream, again. So she rose, rang for Kyrano and lifted her young son out of his highchair. Then, hugging the squirming, dark-haired boy close, she said,

"I'm going to retire for the night. See to the clean-up, if you don't mind, and… please give me some time to think about this."

Alan's jaw clenched. His hips and back were on fire, but he managed to nod politely, anyhow. Scott's dagger-sharp look might have had something to do with that.

"Yes, Ma'am," he answered aloud. "And I'm sorry for making you mad. I just…"

Alan lifted both arms from his sides and then let them drop again in a helpless and frustrated gesture.

"…I want to grow up and get on with my life, is all. The same way you let all the others do."

Lucy wouldn't look at him or at any of them. She just clutched Ricky harder and sped from the room. Virgil was next to depart, getting out of clean-up detail because he had the desk that night. Leaving Scott, John and Alan to their gummy-dank task, he went on up to Jeff's office.

Once there, Virgil shut the heavy teak doors behind him with a thudding heart and strode across the rich Persian carpets like a man who meant business, because this was it. If he was ever to have a chance to try his plan unobserved and uninterrupted, it was now.

Crossing the large, ornate room, Virgil went to Jeff's desk, passing a row of portraits on the way (Scott pictured by his airplane, John standing in the library, himself in the woods, Gordon on the Olympic victory stand, Alan at the beach). Like the wall screens and marble desk-set, the portraits were very familiar. Virgil scarcely glanced at them. After all, he'd painted each one, and mom and dad's, too. But that didn't matter. Just now, he had more on his mind than canvas and oil paint.

Taking a seat at the desk, Virgil reached into a print-locked drawer for one of the disposable, no-trace cell phones John had programmed for sneaky side calls. Clever guy, John… and secretive; the way Virgil needed to be, if he hoped to make all this craziness work.

With a dry mouth and faltering breath, he looked up the number to Brazil's Defense Ministry. Then he used one of John's bypass codes to get his call past the public filtering system and into the Minister's private line.

Senhor Cardona picked up on the third ring.

_"Si?"_ he responded, a bit warily.

Virgil took a very deep breath. His palms were sweating.

"Good morning, Sir," he said, trying to sound sure of himself. "I won't introduce myself, except to say that I was a recent guest of our mutual friend. A few things have become clear to me, lately, and I'd like to be put in touch with someone… connected. I'd like to offer my assistance and expertise."

There was silence for the space of a few jerky heartbeats. Figures on the big wall screens mouthed and gesticulated in tones too low to be heard. Virgil didn't notice. His mouth tasted like metal and worry. Then Cardona said,

_"I understand. Your request shall be passed on, Senhor Tracy. Be prepared for an answer within the next few days. Do not call again, but wait to be contacted. Good day."_

With that, the Minister rang off, temporarily relieving the weird pressure in Virgil's head. Done. He'd actually done it.

The brown-haired young man sat back in Jeff's leather chair, hoping he wasn't making one giant d-mn blunder. If only it wasn't so hard to _think!_ Then a call came through on the public Tracy Aerospace line, making Virgil jump like he'd been scalded with coffee, again.

Almost dropped the phone trying to answer it. Only, Cardona hadn't rung back so quickly. Instead, it was the head of the Peruvian body guard/ escort squad, announcing the start of another very rough day. Gordon hadn't made it to Lima.

XXX

_Peru-_

There are times when you reason and think. There are other times when you simply hang on and survive. This was one of the others. The gale wasn't just air but a monster; tearing and shaking the shed and trying like h3ll to break in. Balked by metal, concrete and TinTin, it rumbled and shrieked; loud as a rockslide.

All Gordon could do was shove TinTin into the pitiful shelter of some bolted-down machine casings and try to cover her with his own trembling body. Her mind touched and anchored him, just as it kept their shed from flying apart. But everything else was a nightmarish struggle. Even breathing. For the air was first torn from their lungs, then the pressure inside their small shed crushed tight as a fist, making it terribly hard to exhale.

Gordon thought he was going to suffocate, or go deaf. It was the girl who kept him conscious and focused. In his head, he could feel TinTin's prayers; her calming encouragement. And _d-mn…_ she really did love him, more than he deserved or could hope to repay. He saw it that moment and never forgot it, for all that remained of his life.

Bits of airplane and runway lights hammered against the shed. A safety window cracked, letting in hissing tendrils of grit. The floor shook as though a fleet of steamrollers was racing past through the storm. Their ears kept popping. But Gordon and TinTin hung on; to their hiding place and each other. In his head, he could feel her weakening under the strain of fighting a monster of air and debris.

The metal casings they'd crouched between hummed and flexed with each shifting wave-front of pressure. Gordon held tighter, willing whatever strength he contained into TinTin. Because she, at least, had to make it through. She had to be safe, or what was love for?

No storm lasts forever. Silence descended at last; partly because the wind died down, but mostly because something tore through the walls and smashed into Gordon.

XXX

_Tracy Island-_

Alan was too pain-wracked and fidgety to be much use, so Scott and John did most of the cleaning themselves. Kyrano appeared after a bit, rigid with disapproval, to clear the silver chafing dishes away from Lucy's polished mahogany sideboard. His back _might_ have got stiffer with the surgical addition of pins and steel rods, but Scott rather doubted it. Certainly, the old man never spoke beyond,

"Good evening, Mr. Scott… Mr. John… Master Alan."

Still offended, apparently, by Lucy's attempt at down-home cuisine. Well, he could take a number and wait in line. The thundering herd of Scott's problems wound right out the door and halfway round the building, leaving him little time for sensitive chefs.

First of all, he was exhausted and bored with scrubbing food off the carpet. Second, as he told John, sotto voce,

"Listen, I know you're busy, but we've _got_ to get Thunderbird 2 repaired and ready to go. Something's about to happen, again."

John cocked a silver-blond eyebrow.

"You're having premonitions, now?" he asked, pouring hydrogen peroxide onto a gummy brown stain.

"No," said Scott, shaking his head. "But it figures. The Core Mission's about to launch, that terrorist group is still up and active, and Gordon's out there in Lima with TinTin. You do the math, Little Brother."

John shrugged.

"Sleep's overrated, anyway," he remarked philosophically. "Once I work out how to manage like a dolphin, with half my brain resting at a time, I'll never lie down again."

Scott stopped dabbing the stains to grin at him briefly.

"When you figure it out, send me the details," said his older brother. "I'll be next in line."

Meanwhile, there was Alan; lurching, fuming and mostly getting in everyone's way. Still thinking of sharp, caustic retorts an hour after Lucy had gone off to bed. Scott did his best to ignore the frustrated young racer, conversing with John instead. Not that the astronaut had much else to say besides,

"Dad sent me a message."

"Oh, yeah? What about? The Company or the Family Business?"

John ceased scrubbing to think.

"Both, maybe. He said something like: _Remember, John, we have nothing to hide. Here, or at home._ Not sure what that's supposed to mean, though."

Scott's blue-violet eyes narrowed. Truthfully, a little distraction was welcome, even when it came in cryptic-message-from-dad format.

"Could be reverse psychology. Like he's trying to remind us to cover our a$$es. Or, there might have been somebody listening in. You've probably talked to him more than I have, recently. Did he sound extra stressed?"

"Uh…"

Right. Might as well ask a snake about music or pole-vaulting.

"Was he talking faster than usual? Did his voice break?" Scott supplied helpfully.

"I don't know," John admitted. "He sounded like dad. I didn't pick up on anything else."

"No problem," Scott assured the astronaut, reaching out to clasp his brother's slim shoulder. "I'll give him a call or jet over, first chance I get. In the meantime, though…"

"Fix Thunderbird 2. Got it," said John, relieved to be back in safe territory. "She'll be FMC* by noon tomorrow, if I have to cannibalize Alan for spare parts."

(*Fully Mission Capable)

Scott snorted.

"And have her start flying in circles, playing air-guitar? Virgil would strangle you. Stick to the 3-D printers. You'll get better results."

The wall comm clicked on, right about then. Virgil, calling from the office.

_"Guys, you need to get up here, real quick,"_ he said. _"Don't tell Mom, yet, but something's happened to Gordon and TinTin."_

XXX

_Midworld-_

A nervous werewolf crunched across blood-spattered snow, snuffing air that was freighted with griffins and death. He could think, after a fashion. Enough to be confused. Enough to realize that all was not well.

Ahead lay a man wrapped in split, bloodied metal and powerful spells. A girl, too; still young, but close to the time of her blooming. His nose told him that, just as it told him that the crowd of people and creatures surrounding them were rife with suspicion and fear. Unlike the man and girl, they smelt very strongly of harm.

The horse behind him was a friend, for reasons his mind had become too narrow and fierce to recall. But the knowledge itself was enough to calm him somewhat.

The man-ahead spoke, making noises that should have had meaning, but didn't. Not any longer. The werewolf paused, whined and licked his muzzle uncertainly. Again, something was wrong. Something had changed.

He wanted to break free of this man-ring. To tear throats and flee to safety with the horse. He shivered, and a low, rumbling growl started deep in his throat. But the man-ahead gestured and spoke. Magicks stirred in him, like dust in a swirl of hot wind. The others around them moved and called out, and the wolf's ears could not swivel quickly enough to catch all their clamour. Every sense he possessed told him to run. Every sense but a few shreds of loyalty to… for…

He got a sudden confused impression of mingled pack-leaders and human warriors, centered somehow on the man who waited and watched him, ahead.

Nameless now, and almost without memory, the werewolf forced himself to start walking. If there was safety, it lay in the person before him, not in bolting through packs of armed fighters. Closer and closer he drew, stopping just out of reach.

The man put forth a bare hand, stripped of metal. Easy to bite off and probably warm to the belly. Better than torn-free snatches of griffin, at any rate. The wolf did not bite, though. He just snuffed, feeling his tail begin a welcoming half-wag.

Someone else drew near, then. One like the man, but with a sharply different, predator's scent. This one flickered darkly with magick; a being at war with its own nature, he sensed. It moved closer and gestured, snapping words than bit down like teeth. All at once, magick sputtered and ran, forming long, glowing runnels that reached for the startled wolf.


	63. 63: Fall Guy

Thanks for reviewing, Bee! =)

**63: Fall Guy**

_Peru-_

Over the screeching lament of high wind and rattling metal, TinTin Kyrano first heard something tear, and then felt its sharp, crushing impact. But not upon her.

Pinned between two large, bolted-down cases and covered by Gordon, she could not easily be got at. Instead, the flying debris struck _him_, and the blow was like crushing nightfall in her mind, as well. There was shock; an explosion of brief, intense pain and then blackness. Perhaps the storm died away afterward. TinTin never knew it. Voices part-woke her some time later, but her mind was too fogged to hear and absorb much beyond,

"…Tracy."

_'Hide,'_ she thought, blurry and desperate, as a great weight was pulled from her crouched body. _'We must not be seen.'_

And so she wasn't.

XXX

_Tracy Island, the office-_

"What do you mean, _'They never arrived'_?" Scott demanded urgently, once he and John got together with Virgil. The dining room was only half-cleaned, but none of them cared. Alan, who hadn't yet heard the full news, was down below, sorting plates and cutlery. "Did they have to divert?"

Virgil rose to greet his hurrying older brothers, who closed the doors tightly behind them. Both were electrically tense; alert as a couple of stalking cats.

Virgil nodded once in response to Scott's question.

"Looks like it," he said. "The local forecast called for brisk winds, but what they got was more like a band of tornadoes. Only reason I know all this is because I fielded a call from the escort team a few minutes ago. Seems they were in contact with Gordon for awhile, managed to get a fix on his cell phone and started after him, but then had to turn back due to severe weather."

Scott bit back his caustic opinion of bodyguards who'd let a little thing like the weather prevent them from doing their jobs. _He_ wasn't paid and didn't expect to be; the risks he took came from a sense of adventure and the earnest desire to help. But hired men no doubt felt differently.

"Right," Scott decided aloud. "I want the local rescue teams organized, Virge, with operatives at the head of each one. John, pinpoint Gordon and TinTin for them. I'll call dad."

His orders were mostly unnecessary. Already hard at work, John had summoned a large, holographic map of Peru. It glimmered before them in midair, zooming with dizzying speed when the astronaut spoke the coordinates for Lima.

Scott only half-watched as John flashed through a rapid series of satellite views. He was busy, himself, punching their dad's private number into his cell phone. There was no shortcut for this one; memory only, just in case their phone lines ever got hacked.

He was still trying to get through, when another line buzzed. One of the no-trace disposable units they sometimes contacted hostile authorities with. Left out on the desktop, it burped and rattled like bad news wrapped in shiny dark plastic. Both Virgil and John reached for the phone, but Virge got there first, whipping the noisy device out from under John's slim, outstretched hand.

"I got it," he mumbled, flushing to the roots of his wavy brown hair. "It's nothing. Wrong number."

Uh-huh. John made brief, narrow eye-contact, then glanced abruptly aside. He'd always found facial expressions and vocal tones hard to interpret, but even so, Virgil seemed edgy. Not in that _'Launch-in-two-hours-try-to-keep-breakfast-down-and-look-calm'_ sort of way, either. Around the Cape, you saw plenty of that. This version was different.

But so was his map, all at once. Somehow, Peru had vanished from the semi-transparent image; replaced by a weirdly familiar, made-up landscape dotted with beleaguered small towns and stone castles. One locked in the grip of a very hard winter. After a blank, startled moment or two, John recognized the setting of Alan's favourite role-playing game. Midworld, somehow ported to the office computer's map feature.

'_What in the hell…?'_ Thought John, starting to type at his flickering virtual keyboard.

"What's going on?" snapped Scott, who was still waiting for Jeff to pick up. John did not answer aloud. There was a partial explanation in his head, but he forgot to put it in words. Just lunged for the nearest wall-comm, slapped the thing back to crackling life and said,

"Alan... your busted ass, the office. _Now."_

XXX

_Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming-_

Paul Metcalfe, Myrna Sanderson and Cindy Taylor were back in the Drill Monster, strapped into launch position. Only this time, the scenario was real, and the vehicle live. Here and now, they were about to take a pitiful long-shot at saving humanity's future.

Amid all the terse, gung-ho banter and sarcasm there were plenty of well-hidden butterflies. Understandable, because maybe the mission _would_ take a month... and maybe they'd soon bury most of their nerves in routine. But it started _now,_ and nobody's mouth was drier than Cindy's.

On the bright side, repeated practice had made most of her chores automatic. She could flip switches and run programs with the best scared-shitless reporter out there, and keep a running narrative for the public while doing so. After all, enquiring minds wanted to know, and feeding that beast was Cindy's main job.

A launch upward would have been far more scenic, with gantries, ramps, wheeling gulls and clear skies. No such vistas were present, here, though. The great drill had been positioned deep in a tapped-out silver mine. There was no sky but granite. No stars but a strip of bluish fluorescent lighting. No way out, either.

Up front, at the controls, Paul seemed calm and relaxed. Evidently, the Spectrum officer didn't expect Earth's restless crust to throw anything at them that Brains hadn't planned for.

To his right, Myrna was clinically terse, behaving very much as she would have done at the instrument panel of ESU's particle accelerator. If her private heart cherished the cool, measured sounds of countdown delivered by Dr. Hackenbacker, no one else knew it but Brains, himself. And if, coded among his dry run-up instructions were the words "I love you"… _three times_… no one heard or responded but Myrna.

Hackenbacker would have given a great deal to be strapped in beside her, rather than watching as the love of his life vanished into a deep, deadly hole. But… just like International Rescue and the rest of the world… all he could do was stand by.

XXX

_Midworld-_

Something very strange happened, then; having almost nothing to do with magick or werewolves or beastly-cold weather. Very clearly and suddenly, Gawain understood what was happening, and what he must do to repair it.

As though he'd heard someone speaking aloud in a strange, gloating voice, Gawain learned that a pirate ship had sailed upriver to torch and plunder their transport boats. Worse... that this was somehow a _sudden_ change; a circumstance which had not existed mere heartbeats before.

While Drehn's last surge of power brought Arnulf back to near man-form, the paladin's breath caught and his muscles bunched.

"Sir?" Came a tense, quiet voice. His squire's. "Sir, is something amiss? Has your Lord spoken?"

Britte's gloved hand was already at the hilt of her sheathed sword. Gawain couldn't answer her, though, anymore than he responded to poor, hulking Arnulf's wild questions. Drehn had to offer the shivering thane his own close-woven, silver-grey cloak. Otherwise, Arnulf would have been gnawed to death by the wind and stabbed by the eyes of his fellow warriors.

Most of this, Gawain barely noticed. Inside his head were lingering visions of a transport spell gone wrong, resulting in one very lost scholar… of boats belching smoke as they burnt to the waterline… of Bretnoth, unanswered, withering with cold upon the high seat of Rhees… and of Anelle, drawn back to Faerie, forever. All because the sorcerous folk of another realm had decided to reach in and alter his world.

His God's voice was never a loud one; instead of blaring, it bit from inside, bringing with it a sense of hard, crushing pressure. But quiet or not, the voice was dificult to miss and stupid to ignore. Especially now.

Once his brother paladins filtered up through the shifting and muttering warriors, Gawain said,

"Father… milords… I must ask you t' ride on t' Rhees in my stead. The High King is in greater need than we guessed, for this winter-curse centers on him."

Surprised by the strange request, Lot drew rein and peered down from the height of his saddle. He did not respond, immediately. Only after studying his son's pallid face and reading the signs there, did the older man nod reluctant assent.

"Leave at once, we will, Gawain. What of yon war-band?"

The bearded king indicated bunched thanes and liegemen with a wave of his hand, setting his white horse to stamping and snorting.

"They must return t' Falkirk, sir. She will shortly come under attack, and has need of her garrison," said the red-haired young knight, in a grim, distant voice.

Arnulf started at this news, but he was a cursed man now; wrapped in the cloak of a dark elf and seething with magicks. There were very few kind faces among those he'd once feasted with and commanded. In fact, none at all.

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" asked Drehn, as the two orc-brothers came tramping forward with Allat. Britte, of course, had never left Gawain's side, and never intended to.

"The transport boats have all been destroyed, and our fates're changing faster than I c'n speak to tell of it," Gawain answered him, still in that strange, inward voice. "But there is… I'm told of an opening that plunges to th' heart of our world, within a day's ride. Sir Elf… Glud and th' rest… I ask that you go to th' brink of this hole and wait for me there."

"While _you_…?" Allat prompted, taking the shape of a ridiculously stiff, clanking paladin.

"While I strike elsewhere, as hard and fast as I can," finished Gawain.


	64. 64: Distant Thunder

Phew! There's so much I want to write, and so little _time! _The real-world professional crunch has reached alarming proportions. Thanks for reading and reviewing, folks. I promise to respond soon, as well as catch up with my reading. (*grumbles* It's just been so crazy...)

**64: Distant Thunder**

_Peru, near the bone-dry, high Atacama-_

Weary and confused, TinTin Kyrano woke again to the haunting odor of burnt insulation and gunpowder, along with the sound of her name. She was not seized or shaken, but gently moved by men who wore headsets and spoke a smoky-strong version of Spanish. Their faces were broad and their noses were hooked like an eagle's. More importantly, though, her _other_ sense told her that these men could be trusted. That they'd come here to help.

Though not badly injured enough for such treatment, TinTin was placed on a wooden backboard and her vital signs taken, while somebody murmured over the airwaves to Lady Penelope. TinTin listened, trying quite earnestly to follow the one-sided conversation, but the day was waning and the air growing chilly, and she found it hard to concentrate. She'd a very bad head, perhaps from the thin desert air.

Memory told her that Gordon had also once been in this battered and blood-spattered place, but her mind and her heart could no longer find him. All that remained was a deep psychic bruise, left in her thoughts by his wounding and loss. But… where had he gone? And why?

Strong men raised her up with a quick, grunting heave, responding with comforting nonsense to her requests for information.

"Do not worry, Senorita. We will take you to a hospital," said the team leader, a man called Bernardo. "Dona Penelope is on her way from Lima, and she will answer your questions. Please, in the meantime, you must try to rest."

Except that TinTin could not relax, in the face of that bloodied cement floor and Gordon's worrisome absence. But perhaps he'd gone ahead with part of their escort, leaving her to be taken to safety…? It was a comforting thought, so TinTin clung to it, as one swept away by flood waters might clutch at a branch or a floating wood plank.

But being part of International Rescue, she did more than just hope. As her backboard was being carried out of doors and into the fading twilight, TinTin pressed the cracked face of her wrist-comm. Her alert reached Island Base at nearly the same time that another one sounded.

XXX

_Elsewhere-_

Pop the top on a well-shaken bottle of chaos and, just like Pandora, you've soon got your hands full. The Core Mission and its several decoys were launched simultaneously; some into churning dark water, others slipping or burrowing deep into canyons and mines. Only a few key officials knew which mission was the real thing and which were red herrings. Fewer still guessed the true answer, which was "none of the above".

Spectrum and the World Government had anticipated a few sabotage attempts, and they weren't disappointed. The Marianas Trench decoy was nearly buried by a mysterious undersea landslide, while the collapse of its launch track doomed the Rift Valley drilling machine. Its decoy crew had to be pried from the wreckage by Scott and Virgil, who arrived within thirty minutes in Thunderbird 1.

Local security teams were already hard at work by that point, but they lacked International Rescue's specialized, high-tech equipment and the bottomless wallet of Jeff Tracy. What would have taken the legitimate agencies many days to accomplish, International Rescue could manage in hours.

Thunderbird 1 arrived on site at 3:45 AM local time, circling the brightly-lit launch site for fifteen minutes before receiving permission to land. The rumpled, bleak landscape looked like an overturned anthill someone had torched with a magnifying glass; streaming smoke, scurrying figures, and all.

_"Watch yourselves,"_ John told his brothers, as they prepared to leave the clicking and settling aircraft. _"I'm picking up coded transmissions between the launch center and an unlisted mobile phone. I'll have it cracked in a few minutes, but in the meantime…"_

Scott nodded grimly, making certain that Virgil's suit and helmet were secure, even as his younger brother did the same for him.

"It sounds like somebody's not finished stirring the pot," finished the pilot, keying open a boarding hatch. Then, "What about Gordon and TinTin? Any leads?"

He was worried, but doing his best to remain focused in the midst of gathering trouble. With dad at bay in Manhattan, it was vital that Scott seem calm and in charge. Mom didn't need any more stress, just like she didn't need to know about Gordon until he'd turned up and was safely on his way home.

_"TinTin's been found, at an unmanned airstrip near the desert,"_ John told him. _"They're still looking for Gordon, but Lady Penelope is en route. She'll take charge of the local search effort."_

Scott shook his head. It was dangerous to speak openly about operatives and family members in the middle of a mission, but…

"Do you trust her?" he had to ask. After all, Penelope was a part-time operative. One who'd conveniently re-activated herself just as the Cell arose from Belaghant's cold and stiffening grip.

_"I…"_ John hesitated, his transmitted voice hissing and popping over Scott's helmet comm. On this one, he didn't know, he just felt… and that was decidedly odd for the tightly-wound astronaut. _"Yeah. She's all right. Just… emotional."_

By this time, the Bird's hatch had hummed all the way open, letting in a swirling rush of hot wind and glaring spotlights. There was plenty of acrid smoke, too, trailing like blood from the crumpled wreckage.

"Right. Keep me posted," said Scott, shouldering his plasma cutter and med-kit to follow Virgil down the boarding ramp. "And keep an eye on the other missions. Something tells me that things are going to get harrier before the night's over."

XXX

_Tracy Island, the office-_

He was playing it cool, because panic was the total, polar opposite of Alan Tracy-ness, but their computer had gone nuts, and for once he wasn't behind it. Mostly. He thought.

Yeah, so his RPG had somehow been ported into the office computer and mission-simulator room, where it seemed to be unlocking files and altering code like a bit-stream forest fire. But it _wasn't_ Alan's fault, and he could absolutely get the situation back under control. Right?

John might have pitched in more, if he hadn't been tied up monitoring Thunderbird 1, the Core Mission and Gordon's disappearance. (Like there was anything to worry about! Seriously, Gordon could bench-press a school bus full of… y'know… really heavy stuff. He'd probably just wandered off looking for a snack machine, or something.)

But here and now, one file after another was being accessed and copied and sometimes renamed; using a language and protocol Alan couldn't understand, much less block. Bad enough, only what happened next was worse, and nothing short of invasion.

XXX

_Midworld-_

_"Go," _he was told, _"for a way has been opened."_

So he traced the sigil that appeared in his mind and passed right on through it, into a chamber of metal and lights.


	65. 65: Stage Two

Thanks for your previous reviews, Bee and Ginny Star, Mitzy and Tikatu. I'm way behind in my responses, but the feedback is cherished, nevertheless. Edited!

**65: Second Stage**

_The Drilling Machine, far below ground-_

They'd plunged from crystal-blue morning to permanent, stygian darkness; tracking the giant magma plume which seethed below Yellowstone's massive caldera. It was dark there, but Cindy, Paul and Myrna had expected no less. Warned in advance, they'd trained hard to operate their vehicle with instruments rather than visual guidance.

Noise and vibration were omnipresent, changing pitch from time to time as the drill ground its way through many kinds of rock. After awhile, its crewmen were able to identify granite, dolomite, basalt and the like, just from the noises these substances caused, and how badly they slowed down the drill.

The team was in periodic contact with Mission Central and Tracy Aerospace, just as Captain Metcalfe spoke regularly with his superiors at Spectrum Command. All this communication wasn't just guidance and back-patting, either. Mars had been touted as a possible human "life boat", but there were ominous new signs that the red planet was not entirely uninhabited, greatly reducing its potential as mankind's second home. Too, there was the actual, robotic Core Mission to watch over. Spectrum had been tasked with keeping a weather eye on all three situations, and claimed to be ready for anything that aliens or the Cell could throw at them.

Tightening the focus a bit, Cindy Taylor soon grew used to constant noise, freeze-dried food, and sleeping in shifts. Once or twice, she even handled a minor emergency without waking Myrna or Paul. There would be worse to come, as the Drill Monster chewed its way downward and west, but in the meantime, the media spotlight sputtered and glowed elsewhere, like the bright orange flares at a traffic accident.

Just then, the action had reached a boiling point in Africa's Rift Valley, and International Rescue was bang in the midst of it all. Scott and Virgil Tracy deplaned into noise and flame and swirling lights. Loudspeakers blared instructions and warnings in several languages, all of them high-decibel.

Because of the threat of explosion and uncontrolled plasma release, the decoy dig site was being evacuated, and hurrying people were everywhere, filling the bowl of low foothills. Virgil and Scott were met at the end of Thunderbird 1's boarding ramp by a uniformed local official; a man whose gold braid, polished stars and colorful medals marked out as high ranking.

"Welcome," he said to them, introducing himself with a brief nod and tight smile. "I am Colonel Kimfumu, and I have been told to conduct your team to the accident site."

Looking pointedly past the two survival-suited men to Thunderbird 1, he added,

"There will be more of you soon, _Mister_…?"

Scott shook his helmeted head, ignoring the implied name request.

"No, Colonel. It's just the two of us, for now. We can get rapid support from headquarters, if the need arises, but International Rescue specializes in speed and technology, not extra personnel."

Clarified Virgil, when the broad, dark man remained sceptical,

"We'll get the job done, Colonel. We always do."

Kimfumu nodded again, beckoning to one of his slim, uniformed orderlies for a transport.

"Very well," he decided, ( but still with a grudging edge to his deep voice), "only take care that you do not simply make matters worse, or add to my list of casualties, gentlemen."

The armored green transport arrived within moments, looking fit to survive an asteroid strike. Scott and Virgil followed Kimfumu aboard, trailing several hundred pounds of grav-carted equipment and medical gear. They didn't sit down once inside, but stood in the back, holding tight to the vehicle's nylon passenger straps. Safer, that way.

Their transport growled and rumbled its way over rocky and broken terrain, crossing about a mile and a half at top speed; horn and sirens blaring. Only the driver's cab had windows, but Scott could tell from the vehicle's swift, juddering course changes that the territory was quite rugged. He wasn't overly worried, because John was monitoring the situation from Island Base; checking their progress like a security-mad guardian angel. They had a plan in place, should Scott, John or Virgil sense _trap,_ and both of the on-site brothers were armed. There was no other way to do business, with the Cell in the area.

Their vehicle finally jolted to a halt, allowing the army-green hull to yawn open. Coming forward, Scott and Virgil found themselves faced with a twisted mountain of wreckage. The decoy drill's scaffold and track had collapsed… bombed, most likely. Worse, its quarter-strength plasma generator had been breached, causing lightning-like flares which reminded both men of the earthquake machine. Explosion and uncontrolled fire were imminent. So was death, unless Scott could pull off a miracle.

Leaving Colonel Kimfumu to wait in the armored transport, he led Virgil down yet another ringing, bouncing steel ramp. Local crews had already cut partway through the drill's shattered scaffolding, but the going was slow. Smoke, odd angles of approach and spattering energy bursts made direction and distance hard to judge.

Aided by heads-up displays, and with John's voice in their ears to provide guidance, Virgil and Scott were soon hard at work slicing metal. The astronaut was a calm and steadying influence. But John's attention was stretched awfully thin. Understandably so, considering that their father had just been taken into government witness "custody", Gordon was missing, and something had attacked the island's computer system.

XXX

_Tracy Island, the office-_

John had better things to do than snap at Alan. He had a rescue to coordinate, for one thing. For another, Brains was in constant touch about the Core Mission and dad needed a lawyer. Make that a swarm of lawyers; briefs in their holsters and precedents loaded.

On top of all this, Five was flickering urgently for attention at the edges of each floating window and view screen. John would have answered her, too, if he'd been less distracted. But busy or not, he'd a pretty fair guess what it was that had her upset.

Something was happening to the house computer system, stemming somehow from Alan's d*mn Playstation Nano. Files were being corrupted and seized by the thousands, though none of them mission-critical. Not yet.

"Alan," said John, with just a sliver of icy attention, "the system's going to be overwhelmed and shut down in less than five minutes. Find the problem and fix it, or I pull the plug and wipe the registry, starting with your goddam game files."

"Uh…"

See, Alan wasn't sure how to repair the situation, because he didn't know what had gone wrong in the first place; didn't understand how a stupid, dang _game_ could be ported from its home in his handheld gaming device to the office computer system, much less take the thing over.

"…Yeah. I'm on it, John," he said to his tall and blond older brother. "I've got this."

Sort of. Not entirely, because John had already turned back to his clamoring search-and-rescue updates, and now the weird data surge was headed for the Island's simulator room files. The simulator room… where almost any danger scene could be brought to full color life and played out in real time. A strange feeling came over Alan, then.

"Gotta go!" he called to John's diamond-hard, male-model profile. "Be in the simulator room fixing things up, if you need me!"

He didn't wait around for an answer, but turned and _hustled, _limping flat-out from Jeff's office to the laboratory access elevator. Thumped the darn call button so many times that he bruised his fist, then three floors and a long hall to sprint through in less than five minutes… If only he could get there before whatever it was got _out._


	66. 66: Desperate Measures

Thanks for the kind reviews and notes, Bee and Tikatu. I appreciate both.

**66: Desperate Measures**

_La Madre de Dios Hospital, Lima Peru-_

TinTin Kyrano lay on a clattering high metal bed with her face to the wall, watching the dance of light and leaf-shade on cream-colored stucco. She felt empty behind that fog of sedatives; pierced to the heart and drained white. Others had been present in this spotless pale room, but the mere mention of Jeff Tracy's name… and that of Eduardo Dos Santos… had soon got them bundled right out.

Not that TinTin craved privacy. She'd gladly have shared the room with five large families and all of their livestock, if only Gordon were with her, as well. It might have been shock, at first, then the briskly administered drugs, but she _still_ could not sense him. Not here, nor anywhere else. Her reach was dulled by the sedatives, though, and no one would answer her questions. Not even poised, golden Lady Penelope, who'd wafted in on the arm of Eduardo Dos Santos, looking perfectly groomed and utterly self-absorbed. Flanked by doctors they were, like a queen and king with their bustling court. TinTin tried very hard to sit up, rustling the bed's starchy covers. But she was too weak to do more than whisper,

"Ma'amselle… Monsieur… if you please, ou est… where is…?"

No good. All she got in response to her stumbling question was meaningless comfort and a higher dosage. Perhaps there'd been something else in Penelope's crystal-blue eyes just then, when her tall, swarthy beau turned away. Tension, it might have been, or genuine worry. But it vanished the instant Eduardo turned back from adjusting his cuffs and tie in the mirror. Sighing, Dos Santos cast a meaningful glance at his watch, already bored with his mission of mercy.

Penelope ignored the hint. Uttering a light, tinkling laugh, she patted TinTin's small hand, saying,

"Just you lie here and have a nice rest, TinTin. There's a dear… Leave all the tiresome, rough bits to Interpol and Eduardo's security team. They're ever so keen on such things."

TinTin's mind was too drug-muddled to see what lay beneath Penelope's airy words and chirping façade, so she turned her face to the wall and kept quiet, wondering just how badly matters had gone wrong, elsewhere.

XXX

_Tracy Island, below the mansion proper-_

His back and hips were on fire, spreading needles and tendrils of pain all through his limbs, and yet Alan lurched onward. Out of the elevator he stumbled, rushing through the anthill of passages connecting Brains' lab, the 3-D printer and his goal, the simulator room.

Weird things were happening all around him as Alan raced forward. Lights flickered and spat. Doors opened for no reason at all, or stuck fast. Maintenance bots curled up like dead spiders, dropping from their recharge niches with sharp, brittle clangs.

Okay, so there was good, there was bad, and there was "Hit the ground, boys! Duck and cover." Right now, with his breath sawing hard and his back locked in somebody's red-hot clamped fist, Alan figured they'd rolled right into stage three and were blasting for four.

He reached the sim-room's electronic door with maybe a heartbeat to spare. Five minutes, John had given him. Five minutes before the astronaut/hacker tried something typically quick and dirty and dangerous.

Panting harshly, Alan lunged forward those last few feet and then slammed the door's palm scanner; letting it read his identity while hoping it hadn't been corrupted already and wouldn't just lock him the heck out.

See… some kind of way, whatever he'd done to change the RPG back to normal had instead caused it to go all haywire on him and attack the house computer. How, he didn't know, and right now, didn't much care.

What mattered was that the game computer was smart enough to seize and move through wireless channels, heading for the one place where its bit-storm of pixels would carry real, deadly weight; a place which could simulate anything.

At first, the door wouldn't open. Alan three times wiped his sweaty palm for another try, and each time was rejected. Then, after this weird, high-pitched buzzing noise, the lights dimmed in passage 3-west and the door stuttered open.

Instantly, Alan was hit with a blast of shocking cold air. Clutching the door-frame, he staggered within, leaving skin behind on the sub-zero metal when he pulled himself free and stood upright. Inside… there was no more simulator room. Just an infinite landscape of wind-carven ice and piled snow, flooded with intense, blue-white light.

Something moved, maybe ten yards away. If Alan hadn't known better, he'd have said: something moved disoriented-ly. Like it had just gotten here and wasn't quite sure where it was. Behind it there shimmered some kind of weird, 4-D building. A tower, maybe.

"It" was manlike in shape but heavily armored and armed, clothed in blazing pure-white crossed with red. Wisps of blue fire seemed to outline the figure, around which were massing an army of digital, flickering clones.

Alan's palms were ripped and bleeding from the arctic-cold door frame, but the blood had frozen, so he stuck out a hand and stepped further in, calling,

"Hey, uh… S'up, man? I'm Alan, and I think there's been a, like, failure to communicate. I'm…"

He never got to finish, because the figure spoke a word, just one, and the Play-Station Nano in Alan's left pocket began to shudder and glow. Then it leapt from its prison of khaki cloth and rose in the air before Alan's wide-eyed face.

Okay; good move, bad move… right? Good move: let the scary armored dude have your dang game system and tell him, _"Thank you, sir, for robbing me blind!"_ Bad move: throw your back and hips into further searing pain by jumping up to catch the levitating Play-Station. Yeah. Guess which move Alan chose?

_"Hey!"_ he shouted aloud, grabbing for the rocketing game system. "That's mine, you freak! Give it back!"

His lunge caused Alan to stumble further into the room, into air like a furious slap… and straight at the armored, blinding-white figure. Moving like no one that big and heavy should have been able to, the invading game-object leaped at him. Drawing its sword, the figure did some sort of crazy-complicated midair toss to reverse it, and then bashed Alan so hard across the head with its hilt that the young man's skull cracked and he dropped to the digital snow, unconscious. Blood spattered, as more and more ghosts escaped the machine and entered reality.

XXX

_The Rift Valley drill site, North Africa-_

Ignoring dense smoke and whirling lights, Scott Tracy concentrated on his heads-up display and on John's calm, steady voice. The decoy drill's scaffold had collapsed like a wireframe card house, and it flickered all over with greenish St. Elmo's fire. Somewhere inside that shifting tangle of metal lay three trapped, wounded people. Outside, in hiding nearby and ready to strike, crouched an operative of the Cell. All around were innocent bystanders and rescue crews, just doing their job or trying to leave. And all of this centered on him.

Scott's mouth was dry, but he pushed forward anyhow, using the plasma cutter and a powerful neutronium jack to get himself and Virge through the mare's-nest of wreckage. So far, so good… but the terrorists would likely wait until their marks were well inside, before springing the trap.

Fighting his way through twisted steel and puddled fuel one slow step at a time, he called,

"Island Base, from drill site rescue team. What's the situation…?" (_Back home_, he'd almost added.) "Anything new?"

His brother's reply spattered with static like hot, popping grease.

"_All quiet, on every front you can think of. Watch yourself and have a quick exit plan, in case we lose contact."_

Inside his helmet, Scott nodded. His own reflection nodded back; ghostly-pale between the virtual heads-up screen and that crushed stack of girders.

"FAB. Understood, Base. Take care of yourselves, over there."

Behind him, holding a powered-down cutter, Virgil Tracy struggled for breath and for sanity. Not long before, he'd been kidnapped by the Hood. Drugged and imprisoned, Virgil had managed to resist Belaghant's hypnotic mental powers… or thought he had.

You see, after his escape and rescue, he'd gotten a risky idea…

…contacted the Cell's Minister Cardona…

…and now there was a command screaming for attention at the back of his mind, bearing down like a gauntleted fist.

"_Ignite the cutter and slice,"_ it ordered him. _"Not the debris, but your brother."_


	67. 67: Partial Recall

What a weekend! Political rallies, on-line classes, hospital visits and breakfast with the candidate. My head is still spinning. First draft.

**67: Partial Recall**

_The simulator room; a no-man's land between worlds-_

Something was wrong. As illusory ice crystals swirled and phantom warriors gathered about him… as the will of his deity burnt its way through Gawain and alien realm, alike… the paladin hesitated. He'd been attacked, and responded in kind, crushing his opponent with one well-placed blow.

Yet, as Gawain drew nearer that crumpled, bloody figure, he saw that the fellow was young and fragile, with neither the frame nor the strength of a man. Unarmed, as well, wearing raiment more suited to the garderobe than a fight. Then there was the enchanted object Gawain had spelled from this unready child. Source of the link he'd been ordered to sever, it resembled a silvery box made from a substance unknown to the knight, with flickering lights at one end. Some sort of magickal tome, perhaps. At least, it opened very much like a book, to display two glowing square "pages". Inside there were several small bumps which would sink just a bit when pressed, causing the pages to alter.

Well, _he_ couldn't decipher nor manage the thing, beyond simply grinding it under his boot heel, but Frodle most likely could. Or Drehn, if only the halfling and drow could be brought here.

Rigid answer/ strict orders: destroy the grey box and sever the link between Midworld and _here. _Only… Gawain thought hard… would this not leave the changes wrought by its master intact?

Elastic answer/ interpreted orders: find a way to prevent interference and reverse all the harm to both realms, starting with the wounded blond stripling before him. Call it negotiated obedience. This time, he was not saying "no". Just… seeking new paths to the same destination.

It is in the nature of a paladin to heal the injured and sick. Crunching a last few feet through magickally crafted snow, Gawain dropped to one knee beside the wounded and unconscious fellow. (Couldn't bring himself to think "warrior". From his lack of muscle and harness, this was no fighter. Even Frodle and Drehn were better thewed. Even Britte.)

But the need was great and his time limited, so the knight stripped a gauntlet and placed his hand on the lad's blood-clotted forehead. In Midworld, his magicks had faded. Here, power eddied and flowed like a cataract, in discreet tiny parcels and motes. Not _quite_ the same as in Midworld, but near enough to be useful.

With word, thought and sigil he healed the lad, who first twitched, then gasped like a fish and sat up. Scrambled backward, too, never taking his eyes from Gawain.

_"XXXX!"_ said the boy, and then _"XXX XXXX,"_ sounding surprised. There was no comprehending his odd-seeming speech without a paladin's skill at translation, applied to the uttermost.

"Again, if you please," Gawain told him, rising smoothly for all of his armoured bulk. The other got up, too, looking shaken and wary. Then,

_"I xxxx, xxx xxx xxx get xxxx?"_

Gawain shook his head, reflexively tapping at the hilt of his re-sheathed sword, a gesture which made the lad jump like a startled fawn.

"Damme strange language. Most convoluted," the knight muttered, reaching up to remove his helmet. He thought better sometimes, with more airflow.

Pushing the mail coif and leather cap from his head, Gawain released a mass of compressed copper hair, causing the young fellow's eyes to widen abruptly. He started speaking again, very rapidly and with overmuch gesture, like a haggling marketer.

_"Xxxx xx xxx xxxx Gordon xx xxxxxx!"_ he cried out, taking a swift half-step forward.

Very strange. Then the place between worlds flickered, candle-like; sprouting lines of white flame on its bright-polished walls. For just an instant the snow and cold vanished utterly, as did that army of conjured paladins. In their place, for a stuttering heart-beat, was the chamber of metal and lights. Faster than blinking, the illusion returned. Only thinner this time; phantom-like. Impulsively, Gawain held forth the grey box.

"What's been done," he said, "only you c'n undo. In return, I'll vow t' leave you unharmed, with all you hold dear."

Alan, meanwhile, was totally knocked for a loop. Like, okay… he was talking to a murderous game object, his brother's in-the-flesh avatar. A guy whose stats he'd frickin' _rolled up!_ Only, without the long moustache and no sense of humor. Just loads of unexplained strength.

'Kay, Alan's big secret was that he knew all those crazy made-up languages like Elvish, Common and Orc. But Gawain over there wasn't using any words that he recognized, except for once in awhile. On the other hand, there was no mistaking the intent of his healing and offered-back Play-Station. He wanted repairs and a truce.

Very gingerly, 'cause the dude was muscled like Popeye and moved like Sonic the Hedgehog, Alan reached for his game system back.

"Thanks, man," he said to the character, adding, "Don't guess you've got any clues about Gordon, huh? Like, if he's hurt, or something?"

Gawain's eyes were bluer than Gordon's, and his red hair was more messily cut, like nobody cared about style, over there. He had some of the same facial expressions, though, including (just now) the one that meant: _Dude, you're a total waste. What d'you mean, you can't do a press-up on your knuckles?_

"X xx not xxxxxx Gordon," he snapped. "Xx xxxx xx Go-wen."

"Uh-huh, whatever buffs your shield, bro… Just hold it down, okay? I'm trying to work. Gotta get this settled before John shuts us down."

That _thing_ happened again, causing weird fadeouts. Digital snowstorm and massed, waiting army shrank to moiré and glittering wireframes. Except for Sir Gawain, who was an all-right dude, for somebody Gordon had cheated at dice to beef up.

Part of the walls began vanishing, leaving nothing behind but grey stuff and mist. Worse, these patches were not replaced when the illusion came back. They just hung there, like some kind of crashed, sparking window.

Suspecting John, Alan hurried; paging through all of the games on his Play-Station Nano to get to the right RPG. Accidentally flicked past it, too, and had to scroll back, by which time Gawain had rattled and clanked his way over to where he could see what Alan was doing. Made the soon-to-be race driver nervous, having a human dang battle tank looking over his shoulder like that, but Alan made himself focus. After all, the guy wouldn't have healed him, if he'd wanted Alan dead. Like, his back had stopped hurting, and he wasn't even cold anymore. That had to count for something, right?

When he got to the character bios and thumbnail sketches, though, Gawain reacted like Alan was stealing souls, or something, trying to snatch back the Play-Station Nano.

"Dude!" snarled Alan, springing aside, "They're only pictures! Do you trust me, or not?"

A sharp crackling noise covered up Gawain's answer, as more of their pocket universe faded to grey. Were both worlds being erased? Was the house computer somehow fighting back, making reality skip like a scratched-up CD? Whatever, the effect was getting worse.

Gawain's hand shot out when he spotted the thumbnail picture of Lady Anelle. He touched the screen reverently, like a cleric with holy relics.

"Milady," he said, a bit hoarsely. "She xxx xxxxxxxx xxxx to Faerie. Xxx xxx xxxx her?"

_Oh, yeah,_ Alan recalled; Gawain had the hots for her. One of those "forbidden romance" kinda things. A plot device to keep the characters moving and swords swinging, usually; only now it was holding things up, and he didn't have time for lonely-hearts therapy. Especially with so much of the floor starting to go.

"If you want her back safe, you're gonna have to let me finish, bro. Go click your heels together three times and say: _There's no place like home,_ or something. I got this."

He hoped.

XXXXX

_Tracy Island, the office-_

John could not long ignore Five when she closed all his windows but one and then tried to sweep him on through it. This world, it appeared, was finished. Crumbling at the edges and sparking.

_'Instability resulting from the presence of external influence and attack will cause the destruction of this locus within .35 time cycles, John Tracy.'_

Her words flashed out in bits through the moments between; the diagonal slices of fractional time he couldn't perceive without Five. Made for rather a strobe-light effect, because he wouldn't give in to her pull all the way. His perceptions flickered from 3-D normal to over-space, triggering headaches and nausea while bringing him more of the picture.

Mom was on her way up, having finally got Ricky to bed. Kyrano was anxiously checking his email in the kitchen, while Alan ran some sort of game simulation downstairs. Further away, dad was in custody, Virgil fighting for Scott's life, TinTin sneaking through the corridors of a hospital, and Gordon… not anywhere that John could see. Weird.

"These external influences," John said aloud. "You're referring to _us?_ We're the ones destabilizing the locus?"

_'John Tracy statement is true,'_ she replied, her qubits swirling around him like lavender seawater.

"Would leaving immediately cure matters? If we delete ourselves from the framework would that repair the place?"

His mom was alive here, still married to dad. He'd located Dr. Bennett and made a good start on their daughter. He had a career in the space program...

_'John Tracy statement is incomplete.'_

Incomplete? Neither false nor true?

"Explain," he demanded urgently, resisting her tug toward that beckoning window/ lifeline.

_'Deletion across infinite loci is required in order to resolve strange attractors. This option is not allowed.'_

"Not allowed," John pressed stepping away from her glittering cloud, "…or not chosen?"

For some reason, his heart had begun racing. All he could think of was another dead world, and his family. Five did not reply, but it wouldn't have mattered if she had. There was no way to return to their locus of origin, assuming it even existed, still. Shifting position would not save _this_ world, and would only cause harm to another, as influences from elsewhere were dragged across to make trouble. Effect without cause; like the core slowing down, without any Mysterons.

But, suppose he deleted himself and Five, entirely? Suppose they held hands and stepped off reality's cliff-top, for good? What then?

She must have known what he was thinking, because John could sense fast calculation and infinite searches. But what she'd come up with was anyone's guess. Except that it had to come soon.


	68. 68: Fatal Error

Hi, there! Me again, posting late. On the bright side, I'm through with these leadership seminars I've been helping to helm until after Christmas, and my online class is all but completed. =) Thanks for your patience and reviews, folks! I promise to read/ review soon.

**68: Fatal Error**

_La Madre de Dios Hospital, Lima, Peru-_

TinTin… her heart thumping wildly and blue robe clutched close… had indeed climbed from her bed and out of the room. Not very difficult, really, when one could exert a mild influence so that others were always looking elsewhere; focusing their attention upon other small noises and worries.

She was tired and heart-sore, but too much a fighter to simply give in to despair. No, her closed-eyes-and-pent-breath search for Gordon hadn't located him yet, but the delicate mind-scan had found someone _else:_ Marina Dos Santos, in a room not very far distant from TinTin's.

So, the girl slipped off her snowy-white blankets and sheets to slide from the high metal bed; wincing a bit when her bare feet hit the cold floor. Black and white tile, it was, flecked with shadows and afternoon sunshine. TinTin's toes curled, but she made herself walk, scurrying out through the door and right past a nurse who suddenly decided to have a second look at that chart… past a doctor who thought that he'd felt his cell phone go off… and two orderlies who wondered all at once if they'd brought their patient to the right ward. Distracted, not one of them noticed the small, furtive girl, or detected her absence from bed. Not yet.

Finding her way was even less of a problem than remaining hidden. Once before, TinTin had reached into the mind of Marina Dos Santos, plunging the injured pilot into a coma. But this time, as she flitted past partly shut doors and a busy nurse's station, TinTin warned herself to use the lightest of touches; reminded herself to repair what she'd earlier done. It mattered, you see, because an accidental misdeed corrected might cause her power to grow. Might help the girl to clear her thoughts, so that Gordon was no longer hidden from sight.

Thinking these things, TinTin crossed the hospital corridor at a rapid, crabbed crouch. Dos Santos' room was a large one, packed nearly solid with unheeded balloons and bright flowers. Eduardo's personal fixer had seen to the matter, while her playboy employer was busy with finance and sex.

There were no visitors, thankfully. Lady Penelope and Eduardo Dos Santos had already been and gone, leaving no more than a cold psychic trace of their presence. TinTin drew the thin little robe tighter about herself with hands that shook. She did not like Eduardo Dos Santos, who was as different from Jeff Tracy and his five older sons as a rich man could possibly get.

Bon… neither here nor there, when someone needed help that only TinTin could render. She padded farther into the room, making silver balloons bob and twist on their long, colored ribbons, and stirring the petals of "get well soon" flowers. A hasty check revealed green drapes at the windows and a large, muted television. There was also the normal assortment of Med-Scan support equipment, but TinTin ignored it all, quickly and shyly approaching the rail-sided bed. She'd not seen Marina Dos Santos in person, before, having only been once in her mind (amid chaos and gunfire, at an outdoor cafe).

The woman who lay there was dark-haired and bandaged, with a face which looked strong even while wholly unconscious. She was attached to clicking and humming machinery, breathing just enough to stir the white blankets. She did not move when TinTin leaned over the rail for a swift closer look, nor when her name was called. Not the slightest flicker from body or soul, either one.

Hospitals are busy places, though, and the one thing TinTin didn't have was much time. She'd planned to come here with Gordon, relying upon his strength and vigilance for protection while she lost herself in the damaged mind of another. They'd had a machine with them, too, meant to undo the Hood's vile hypnosis, if necessary.

But, as they say, man proposes while God disposes… and she'd come to this place all alone. No matter, TinTin decided, she'd carry on regardless, as Gordon, her father and Monsieur Tracy would no doubt expect her to.

Very carefully, TinTin narrowed her reach, pulling awareness out of the corridor and room all around her; tightening focus upon the limp figure of Marina Dos Santos. A quick probe revealed a few healing gunshot wounds, but nothing much else beyond the slight wasting of muscles one associated with nearly two weeks in bed. _Mentally_, however…

TinTin shrank away after one brief, inner glance. Had her presence truly caused so much scarring and damage? Was complete control of another so very destructive? Apparently so, for Marina Dos Santos had all but ceased to exist. Horrified, TinTin reached deeper within to repair what she'd done, forgetting all about her surroundings in the process.

XXX

_Africa's Rift Valley, at a shattered decoy drilling site-_

Moments away from unwilling murder, Virgil Tracy did the only thing that he could. Rather than ignite his plasma torch to slash and cauterize Scott, he took a deliberate, stumbling few steps to one side, where the drill scaffold's platform ended abruptly. Fifteen feet below the edge lay more concrete and steel, made shifting and gruesome by darkness, explosion and fast-whirling lights.

Before the talons of that implanted command had quite crushed his thought and willpower, Virgil released his plasma cutter and lunged for the man-made cliff. Not for his own safety, but Scott's. Because dropping the cutter wasn't enough. Because the Cell had corrupted him after all, and meant to use their tool against the people he loved.

Scott's voice blasted through his helmet, first puzzled, then horrified, but Virgil ignored it. Didn't see smoke, twisted girders or emergency lights, either; just the edge of that platform, and his brother's saved life.

XXX

_Below North America, headed for a massive plume of dense magma-_

As the true robot drill-mission burrowed closer to its target plume, the publicized mission… merely first among decoys… plunged all at once into serious trouble. Dr. Sanderson was on shift when their drill encountered a vein of dark, awful stone which clogged up its blades and neutronium treads.

One moment, all was noisy and rumbling, but well. The next brought a sudden wild jerking motion, along with a sound they'd heard in only the most hazardous, least-likely simulations; a screeching, tearing whine. Metcalfe and Taylor were pitched from their bunks, but all the alarms and shouting would have woken them, anyhow.

Struggling into whichever bits of uniform were handy, the pair tumbled from the drill's crew rest area to the control center… but by this point, their remaining life span might have been measured in minutes.

XXX

_Tracy Island, the icy and crowded simulator room-_

Alan had promised to fix things, but reprogramming the dang RPG wasn't proving so simple. The mischief seemed to have gotten into his Play-Station Nano, causing lines of code to skip, shift and rewrite themselves, and chewing up more of his crumbling environment. Didn't help that the armored menace standing beside him had begun scowling impatiently. Didn't help at all.

"Listen, dude," Alan snapped at the red-headed game object, "could you go somewhere else, and take some of those robo-troops with you? I'm trying to think!"

Tough in any case, given all that was happening, lately. He could have sworn that there were small, mocking faces riding the wind all around him. They _bit,_ too, almost making him drop the Play-Station.

Gawain gave him a long stare through narrowed pale eyes, then shook his head and took a step backward. Alan braced to run, but the knight didn't hit him, or anything. Instead, he spoke to thin air like he really expected an answer. Darned if he didn't get one, too, in the form of a spectral drow, an illusory staff-wielding scholar, and the misty shape of a half-orc.

"Uh… _Hey!_" Alan shouted. "I didn't say you could invite anyone else to this party, Bro-chacho! I've got things under control here, okay? Just gimme a second!"

But the halfling (who was slightly crisped around the edges by some nameless adventure) reached out with his substance-less staff to prod Alan's ribs. It tingled like a mild electrical shock, making him jump. Then the scholar said something aloud in a high, reedy voice, and thin air produced _again,_ this time disgorging a really big, tightly locked book. Great.

"You realize they're not gonna talk to each other," blurted Alan, as the halfling wove strands of magick to link the tome and Play-Station. "I don't even know what system you're running!"

Annnnd… meanwhile, that dark-elf was doing something else; using a web of gleaming ice to slow down the room's disintegration. Didn't take _him_ long to adjust, either, once he'd spoken (or snarled) at Gawain. Only Glud looked surprised… and about three times bigger and homelier than Alan had envisioned him.

Still, the young man wasn't able to focus well on these brought-to-life game objects, because his Play-Station Nano had started to flicker and spark in his hands. Should've let go of the thing, probably, but it was all the control Alan had, just then.

"Okay, look," he protested. "I'm sorry for switching things around on you like that. I didn't know I was shaking up a real world. But we gotta get you guys out of here, before anything else disappears or goes wrong… and if my brother's over there at your end, you've gotta send him back. I'm serious!"

Frodle scowled at him, then, looking up from his fast-paging tome.

"It is worse than you suspect, young mage," said the scholar, activating a translator amulet. "Both worlds are doomed, unless we can sort out a way to sever our link and strike at the cause of this chaos."

"The cause…?" Alan blinked. "You mean… it's not _me? _I didn't do anything wrong besides writing another scenario?"

Flipping a page, the scholar shook his curly-haired head, _no._

"Then…" Alan wondered, "Who _did_?"

XXX

_The office-_

Five's response was subdued, if typically swift.

_-John Tracy, there is a 93.753535353535… percent probability that deletion across the multiverse of this entity will reverse damage and restore previous conditions.'_

Standing in mid-office, John took a very deep breath and willed time to creep even slower.

"What about me? What happens to those numbers if I go, too?"

She shrank visibly, then, reducing from qubit cloud to a small, flickering point.

_-Probability approaches infinity, John Tracy.-_

"…meaning that it'll work everywhere, all at once and completely," he concluded, folding long arms across his thin chest. "Well… nothing lasts forever, Beautiful. Not even us. I'll go if you do… if it means everyone else gets a fighting chance."

And it would. So, unwillingly, Five extended a rippling arc of pure quantum energy.


	69. 69: Time Was

Nearly through, and with time enough to actually read some reviews and the work of my colleagues! Mostly because I was up half the night, scribbling, but still...!

**69: Time Was**

_Midworld-_

The ground cracked and the skies darkened. Steam whistled and continents rumbled, as bindings more ancient than those which pinned monsters began to slip, destroying the order established so many cycles before by the gods of this realm.

From the oceans rose titans once locked down as islands, shaking cities and lives from their broad, stony backs and roaring their anger aloud. From the unquiet air, spirits of storm and wind descended like whips to lash at the surface below. No longer imprisoned, shot-through with malice and havoc, fire and venomous fumes exploded out of the split, moaning land.

And all because deep at its tap root, the world-tree was dying; because now, maybe, nothing could sever the link which had locked the fate of two worlds, dooming them both. No one in Midworld was able to prevent it. Certainly not the paralyzed bodies of those called away, or one young squire with only a centaur, a half-orc, a shape-changer and a lone, nervous werewolf for company. Not the paladins or house-carls, either, though the former were riding as hard as divine mounts could carry them to Rhees, while the latter sped for endangered Falkirk.

Britte trailed neither set, deciding to help keep watch over the stilled forms of Glud and Drehn, instead. Gawain hadn't asked her to, but on the whole (as the river rose spuming and rumbling like a silver-scaled serpent and funnels of roaring dark cloud plunged to meet it) the girl preferred to remain with her friends.

If he came back… if her young, red-haired lord succeeded in vanquishing the other-world demon… surely he'd seek for her here, with their emptied or bickering allies. So she stayed, speaking the common spells of farmyard and forest to calm Chester, Voreig and Arnulf.

Much of that same chaos had crept through the link connecting the realms, striking in places of already heightened confusion and danger. In Africa, it triggered the sudden ignition of a second bomb. In Manhattan, it sent a mob of Cell-controlled dupes into the holding room where Jeff Tracy, Al Jenkins and Leisha Bonaventure tensely awaited the ethics committee's final decision. And down below ground… three miles, possibly four… it shut off the Drill-Monster's comm, while pitiless rock shifted itself like massive, toothed jaws.

Things were better in Lima. There, under the healing touch of a gentle mind, Marina Dos Santos coughed and then opened her eyes, asking for water first, and then for her squadron commander. She spoke Portuguese, but TinTin received her intent clear through those strange, whispered words, and she almost cried with relief.

"Be at ease, Captain," she murmured quietly, patting the woman's restlessly plucking hand, "all is well. You are safe in the hospital, and your… eh… your very dear cousin has only just left."

Cast in the light of that kind-hearted lie, the balloons and flowers were no more an empty gesture, but tokens of love and encouragement. Marina managed to smile, at least, and she drank a bit of the water that TinTin fetched for her. There was one small good managed; if only somewhere, someone else was doing the same thing for Gordon…

XXX

_Tracy Island, the simulator room-_

At some point, Alan thought, the room was going to fill up as tight and full of cloned, shining warriors as an infected cell with viruses, and just burst. (See… he _had_ stayed awake in biology. Sort of. Sometimes.) But the supply never seemed to run out, and they weren't taking up much physical space. Just butt-loads of processing power and bandwidth. Bit by bit and byte, their presence was suffocating the island's computer systems.

Nor could Alan stop the exponential production of cloned, viral bots. He was stuck in the middle of game-world-meets-reality, programming like mad, but the system was flat-out ignoring his commands. Alan had a terrible feeling that really, seriously, here was the end of two worlds, unless he could do something slick, or get help. John wasn't answering, though.

To the short little mage-guy, Alan said,

"Listen, man, I was trying to tell Sir Clanks-a-lot, over there, that I can fix whatever's gone wrong, if you just give me time. Tell your side to hold off with the Army of Doom for a second, okay? I don't work well under pressure!"

The scholar's head tilted back a little in order to better regard tall, gangly Alan. His robes and tome were charred at the edges and magickally smoldering, but the halfling seemed calm and unflustered.

"I have no influence over the powers which are using this link to attack your world, young magus," he replied with a headshake. "I am not even truly _here,_ but summoned in spirit by Gawain, for counsel. He is the only one… it may be… who can reason with "our side", as you put it."

Right. Apparently, Tomes 1.0 wasn't having much more luck getting a handle on all this than Alan's Play-Station Nano. Hoping that the translation effect wasn't going to wear off, Alan next darted back through the digital snowstorm to Gawain.

"Okay, dude… thirty more seconds, that's all I need. In computer time, that's, like, a million years."

Not being certain what 'dude' meant, but sensing a lack of proper respect for his God and his station, Gawain scowled.

"_'Sir'_, _'Sir Knight'_, or just '_Gawain'_, if you please, mage. A belted knight and well-blooded, I am… but I'll try t' do as you ask."

Not that his furious Lord was likely to actually heed him. Turning to Glud and the slim, amused shadow of Drehn, he made a good start, saying,

"Can y'r magicks not stop the disintegration, Sir Elf? Whatever we do here, it seems t' me, will have a like effect on our own world."

Glud muttered agreement, but the pale-haired drow only shrugged and smiled at them.

"Most of my kind would stop up and gas their family cavern for a seat at the end of two worlds… then refuse to tip the serving-wench afterward. But I like trouble, mortal women and good ale too much to just watch it all crash. At your request, Gawain," he executed a swift, elegant half-bow, "I'll see what I can do to distract the spirits of Chaos. They nearly always fall for a long, twisting story… especially if the telling is violent and funny."

Gawain smiled back. He would have clasped the elf's shoulder (and Glud's as well), but of course, there was no one physically present. Just a pair of quick-conjured subroutines. Just the shade of some very dear friends.

For his own part, as somewhere nearby a deletion took place, the Cross-Knight did something unprecedented. He called upon the group lore of his Order, accessing what rightly was known by his father, alone: the hundred-letter thunder word. The true, complete name of his God.

XXX

And what was happening elsewhere? If, in Africa, Scott Tracy was forced to make the anguished choice between his duty and a trapped, injured brother… if in Manhattan, Jeff and Al used chairs for weapons, while Ms. Bonaventure threw whatever came to hand like a major-league pitcher…

If (far below the surface) Paul Metcalfe not only _survived_ a fearful explosion, but shielded his crewmates and was somehow reforged in the process… If the robot drill continued to chew its way down to a bright and slow-curling magma plume… surely no one on the island was aware of it. No one remained who could see that much at one time. But these things _did_ happen, while the Cell and a ferocious God/ A.I. prepared themselves to react.


	70. 70: Trial by Ordeal

Thanks for reading and reviewing, Tikatu, Sam and Bee. Much appreciation is wafting your way. I've got to go cook, now, but soon will be back to perform a few edits. Edited, and almost through. PS- Happy Thanksgiving!

**70: Trial by Ordeal**

_Manhattan, New York-_

Not far away (as the corporate jet flies) Dr. Hackenbacker was fighting to regain contact with the drill team. Jeff Tracy might have known this, but he didn't dwell on it. Too busy.

He, Al Jenkins and Leisha Bonaventure had been sitting in a well-appointed room of the Federal Reserve-East building, waiting for news. Time moves slower when your fate is at stake; when the law and officials rise up to take shark-like, shaken-loose bites from your company's drifting corpse. At best, the three of them might have been fined. At worst, imprisoned, while Tracy Aerospace was torn down and sold for her parts. All because of some trumped-up criminal charges and outright lies. They'd had nothing to do with that earthquake machine, nor the diaster which followed its use.

Bad enough. _More _than bad, Jeff would have told you, as he stirred a third cup of un-tasted coffee and shifted around in his seat. Then the room's big wooden doors slammed open, so hard that they bounced off the walls and rebounded.

Startled, Jeff surged to his feet, unconsciously placing himself between slim, dark-haired Leisha and whatever came in through that door. Al, too, got up; being thoroughly calm and sardonic about it… hands in the pockets of his khaki trousers, blond eyebrow hoisted. But the pose lasted no more than a second or so.

See, the Hood had had many victims, each of them emptied, used and at last thrown away. Placed in rest homes and private hospitals, kept alive by machines, they were no more than brain-dead husks. Written off. Forgotten. Then an operative of the Cell coded a brief, urgent signal into local radio and television broadcasts, waking all who could hear. The signal sent them staggering out of their beds on atrophied limbs, trailing their tubes and needles. Most were intercepted before reaching Jeff Tracy. Most, but not all.

When those big maple doors burst open, what rushed, lunged and staggered through was a crowd of dead-alive zombies with one programmed thought: destroy Jeff Tracy and all those who stood with him. Jeff had only to glance at those thin, wasted limbs, scrabbling hands and staring eyes to know that they signaled disaster.

Like Al, he picked up a sleek wooden boardroom chair to use as a club or projectile. Then he fell back a few steps. There was nowhere to go, for their waiting room lay was on the fourth floor and its very few windows were double-paned.

"What's going on here? Who are you people?" demanded Jeff, as Ms. Bonaventure reached for whatever might make a good missile. She was white-faced but calm; every inch the sophisticated corporate lawyer.

Over the sounds of harsh, rattled breaths and hurried footfalls, Jeff added,

"It looks as though some of you are in pretty bad shape. Have a seat, please, while the three of us get you some help."

…which he couldn't believe was so sluggish in coming. Had this invalid horde tripped no alarms? Was the entire summons and investigation no more than an elaborate trap? Some sort of dead-man's switch left behind by the Hood? Those mad, emptied eyes told him _yes._ Then the eyes locked on his presence, and the mob surged forward, roaring aloud.

Fear debilitates some people. Others, it strengthens. Seeing no choice but to fight, Jeff bellowed for assistance at the top of his lungs and swung that hard wooden chair like a misshapen baseball bat.

"Stay away," shouted Al, doing likewise. "I was a Harvard middle-weight wrestling champ, and I shall not hold back!"

But it was Leisha's well-aimed bust of Alexander Hamilton which felled the first zombie; cracking the man's pallid forehead and driving him back to his stuperous coma. He dropped to the carpeted floor like a shriveled old tree, but there were dozens behind him. Jeff, Al and Leisha were soon back to back and surrounded.

None of them had cell phones, because these had been taken "for their own safety". Only, Jeff wasn't much feeling safe. Instead, his arm muscles burned from swinging a broken chair, and his throat was scraped raw from shouting. Blood flecked Jeff's face and fine tailored suit, only some of it his.

_'Like a barroom brawl in Manila,'_ he thought, ducking a claw-fingered lunge and then driving his muscular shoulder into the hurtling, half-dead attacker. The poor, mindless fellow went flying, only to be trampled and crushed by those behind.

The light outside had faded, but Jeff could hear running footsteps and shouts in the corridor. Was help at last on its way?

XXX

The truth about quantum reality: shift a few numbers, move the decimal point, delete a key factor, and all sorts of weird things start to happen.

XXX

_Far below ground, trapped between safety and hell-_

Paul Metcalfe would have thought hard and long, if he'd had any time. Instead, as alarms shrilled, instruments red-lined and warning lights flashed all around him, the Spectrum officer acted.

Seizing his crewmates, he tore them away from their posts and aft, toward the drill's rear-faced emergency hatch (already steaming and reddish). There was survival gear, but damn little time to get into it, and no way at all to save their jammed drill. At this point, trapped and contorted, leaking plasma from that perfectly modeled decoy generator, the Drill Monster was doomed.

With Myrna's help, Paul got the hatch open, while Cindy continued to narrate what might be the last big story of her life. Moments later, he hustled them out the hatch and past warped neutronium treads, into a glowing tunnel of sagging rock that ran with glittering branches of plasma.

It was hot out there, even through layers of asbestos and Kevlar and force-shielding. Filled with drill exhaust and a constant, deep growling noise. Paul's flesh stung, shrinking away from contact with his protective clothing. His arm- and chest-hairs shriveled.

Myrna fought him like a wild-cat with rabies, trying to get back to her precious generator. Cindy Taylor gasped and coughed but kept talking, though doubled right over by horrible, gut-punch heat.

Paul managed to keep hold of both women; half running, half stumbling along that borehole of slumping rock. There was no way that he could outrun the explosion which surely was coming. Not with two stubborn females in tow. But there might be a crack or a natural side branch… something, anything… and his will to survive kept him moving.

From behind there was much louder shrieking and sputtering sounds. The drill's engine had shut down, but not even Myrna could cut off that powerful generator. Paul's heart pounded, wild and irregular. Had he been underground like this once before, hunted by whips of green energy? He couldn't recall. All he could do was keep staggering onward, back toward safety and daylight.

Then noise which beggared description followed a flash of radiation as bright as an unshielded nuclear flare. Captain Metcalfe threw himself forward, shielding the females with his body as he bore them down to the heat-softened ground.

Something flashed past them, and it was as if, for an instant, the universe skipped a frame. Like everything gave up existence, then took a deep, shaky breath and resumed again. In its wake, Dr. Sanderson was comatose, Cindy still mumbling updates, and Metcalfe forevermore altered.

XXX

_Africa's Rift Valley-_

He'd always known it might happen. Always understood that fate might someday force him to choose between the people who needed him, and one of his brothers.

In conference, they'd even talked about it; sitting around a wrought iron patio table in bright tropic sunshine, within sound and whiff of the sea. Bare-chested and laughing, legs stretched out as they nursed their beers and squinted at the lowering sun, they'd each described how they'd vanquish the odds, saving victims and brother, both.

But Tracy Island was a very long way from North Africa, and Scott temporarily frozen. Virgil had flung aside the plasma cutter to step off the edge of a concrete drill platform. No warning, no outcry… just gone. Alive, but unconscious, according to Scott's helmet display, and in no shape to get back to Thunderbird 1.

The local crews had noticed, as well. They were shouting to him and each other in fast, sing-song English, but that was all he received. John hadn't answered Scott's call, and didn't seem likely to. Something wrong with the satellite system, most likely.

"I've got a man down over here," Scott announced over the comm to whoever was nearby and listening. "He's alive, but needs help. I'm… I've got to go after the blast victims. S- Somebody follow my beacon and help my teammate, please."

Scott knew how to trigger and set a universal tracer beacon. He'd done it half a million times in simulation. But this was different. This time, there weren't four towering walls and a swarm of micro projectors around him. This time, Scott Tracy was surrounded by smoldering knots of tangled, scorched steel, clouds of dense smoke and whirling emergency lights.

"Virge, hang on!" he shouted, coming as close to the rubble-strewn edge as he dared. "I'll be back soon, and in the meantime, help's on the way!"

Maybe there was an answer. Maybe Scott imagined it; but he had to move on through that bleak, awful night, regardless.

"I'll be back," he promised once more, before turning again to his duty.

XXX

_Tracy Island, the simulator room-_

Some barrier had fallen. Some sort of magic formula had been achieved. Alan could tell, because all at once the massed and triple-stacked clones began to flicker and jet like a bit-stream delta, flowing up to and past the room's walls.

"Hey!" he shouted, waving the useless Play-Station Nano. "I thought we had a deal, here! No fair!"

Gawain darted away from his ghostly comrades. Thinking quickly, he took advantage of Alan's arm-waving distraction to snatch the small, vital game system. He'd spoken the word… the name of his God… and now must have something to bargain with.

Pronouncing it all was a strain, because there were tones and stresses not meant for a mortal throat, and because his mind balked at some of the concepts contained in that long, twining word. Some were fierce, proud and shining; others grim and horribly tragic, all somehow wrapped in the name of his Lord. But it all got said, like a ringing hammer-blow to reality.

The full attention of a God is like an explosion of powerful sense and emotion. Suddenly, he was immersed in curiosity, impatience, amusement, something like fondness, and a thousand feelings he had no name for at all. Had a dragon breathed in his face, gaping fanged muzzle mere inches from Gawain's head, the knight could not have been better startled. All the world was sparking, _thinking_ blue light.

_'Once again,'_ said the Something around and within him, _'you balk at my order. A weapon which turns in the hand is reshaped or discarded.'_

But this wasn't entirely true. Gawain held the strange metal tome in his gauntleted hand, squeezing hard enough to dent its polished covers.

"Milord," he ventured, "your enemy is gone. It has destroyed itself, allowing your creatures full access t' the other realm. Here is the link, containing all the magicks which bound the two worlds together. Each of your commands has been carried out, Milord."

The pressure redoubled many-fold, then, pinning Gawain's thoughts in place for better examination. The tome… 'Game system'… was removed from his grasp; its contents reeled forth and read, line by glittering, evanescent line. Then his Deity's crushing attention shifted a bit, testing the waters of the newly-abandoned otherwhere.

"Sire," the knight blurted, for there was blood and flame in the mind of his God, "If I may speak… the folk of that world are like unto us. I've spoken t' one of them, and I know. They meant no great harm, and th' one that offended you has vanished. Is… Is it not enough? Could they not be left in peace?"

There were supposed to be wishes and rewards for a quest duly mastered. He'd done his Lord's will, after all…

_'Rebelliously. Though strong and capable, you fail in obedience, Gawain. This may not be forgiven a second time.'_

As he'd been warned.

"Then I'll take whatever's t' come to me," the knight responded, having done what he could. But in examining hearts and long lines of shimmering code, a Deity, too, might undergo change. The judgment of this one was swift, and tempered (somewhat) with mercy.


	71. 71: Mirror Image

Heh! Give me a little time to think, and writing turns fun, again. It's only when I'm torn in every concievable direction that I start losing my spark. I do love a good, long vacation, though! =)

**71: Mirror Image**

_Africa's burning Rift Valley-_

They were actors; stand-ins, chosen for their physical resemblance to Paul Metcalfe, Myrna Sanderson and Cindy Anne Taylor. Meant to divide and confuse possible terrorist action, they'd climbed that day into a mock-up drill which only a top-rated engineer could have told from the real thing. They were never meant to actually _launch,_ but only draw fire, and in that, the decoy crew and their sitting-duck drill had succeeded admirably.

Names? For whatever it matters, Charles Wakefield, Bette Donavon and Nancy Forrest. Well paid and insured, with no family to mourn them (or sue), the decoy crew were now sealed in a battered, upside-down fake, itself pent amid hundreds of tons of collapsed, sparking steel. None of the hatches would open. None of the instruments worked. It wasn't supposed to have happened this way, and all three false crewmen (who'd met only that morning) were petrified.

"You think they'll dig down here and save us?" asked Bette (Myrna's thin, brown-haired double).

"Why should they?" scoffed Charlie, glancing away from his cracked and crazily tilted view port. "They've gotten what they wanted. Five gets you ten that the _real_ mission is off and running like gangbusters. Flags waving, bands playing."

Nancy was less certain. Hugging herself, the worried young soap-actress said,

"They still have to face the press and the public tomorrow, Chuck."

"Charles."

"Whatever. I'm just saying that we won't be abandoned, is all. _Someone's _gonna come get us out of here."

From her perch on the splintered back of the comm station chair, Nancy peered at an instrument board which was stubbornly… deliberately… not functioning. Not that she'd have known how to use it, in any case. Not like they'd had any real training, or anything. Just coffee, donuts, back-slaps and, "Hey, thanks for helping to save your nation and world… blah, blah, blah."

Then, they'd sucked in their guts and climbed aboard ship, waving for the cameras like genuine heroes. So far so good, but before the mock countdown ended, there'd been a concussively loud, earth-shaking blast, followed by a jolting and shattering fall. A bomb, most likely, though no one inside could be sure... Just as two of them weren't at all sure they were going to be rescued.

_"Someone's gonna come get us out of here,"_ mocked acid Bette. Then she added, shaking her head, "naïveté like that is real cute in a toddler, sweet-pea. From a grown woman, it's kind of pathetic."

Red and blue lights flashed and faded, sending weirdly-angled shadows into their crushed, leaking drill. Worse, every so once-in-awhile their weight caused the whole mess to shift and settle with a noise like the world's final groan.

Nancy couldn't help herself. Her lower lip trembled and her tear-pricked dark eyes began blinking like mad. Somewhat awkwardly, Charlie reached over to pat her shoulder, but that only made the mock drill tilt a bit farther, snapping one more strand of their precarious steel web. The tear-streaks on her bruised, pretty face glittered whenever those red-and-blue lights flashed, but Bette was utterly dry-eyed; far too cynical to waste her time crying.

Only, something good _did _happen. Someone _did_ come. Several minutes after Nancy broke down, they heard shouting. A man's hoarse, urgent voice, somewhere outside.

_"…in there? I said: if you can hear me, tap on the side, or make a signal of some kind! This is International Rescue speaking!"_

As one, the drill's inmates lunged to pound on whatever bit of metal or hull was available, making more of a din than Quasimodo at the bell tower. Charles shouted back, as the drill began listing again,

"Yes, we can hear you! For God's sake, get us out!"

_"I'm coming,"_ their rescuer called, with a gruff, inexplicable catch in his voice. _"Hang on!"_

They could only wait after that, as the flare and crackle of a shielded cutting torch lit up their forward view screen; as others joined and assisted their primary rescuer. The drill's generator was mostly a mock-up, of course, but it had been cracked in the blast, leaking fierce violet plasma which snapped and curled in response to their rescuer's cutting torch. Only his force shield kept them all from frying like a moth at a bug-zapper. Even so, the cabin soon turned dangerously hot and static-charged. Dangerous, period.

He kept working, though; talking only enough to reassure the trapped victims that he wasn't going to just give up and leave them. Minutes or hours might have passed. Hard to tell, when you're saving and counting up heartbeats. Let's say that it took awhile, but the job got done.

He wasn't the first one to reach inside when the last of those prisoning girders was cut (carefully, with an eye toward the load thereby placed on the rest). Nor did they find out his name. Colonel Kimfume and crew took over once International Rescue cleared a path, and it was Kimfume's big hand that they shook when the hatch was pried open. _His_ face which appeared with theirs in all of the local news broadcasts.

As for Scott Tracy, having sweated and prayed his way through a life-and-death game of jackstraws, he immediately turned to head back and help Virgil. Each cautious step should have been faster. Each sudden obstacle ripped a snarling curse from the anguished young man. All he could think of was Virgil, wounded and helpless out there, with God knows what else waiting to spring at them, and no word at all from the Island.

It was smoky-dim morning by the time Scott reached the drill platform's edge; coming to the spot where he'd placed the beacon just as a bloated red sun heaved itself over the crumpled horizon. Over the radio, Kimfume had sworn that his brother would be evacuated to triage… but Scott had to check. He had to be sure. Approaching the edge through a tangle of smoldering beam-ends, he panted,

"Virge? Are you there?"

It was the answering noise which made him draw closer to that heat-blackened edge; leaning out just a bit for a look at what lay below.

XXX

_Manhattan-_

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and it's time to find a new job. But the Federal Reserve officers were more than sharp enough to recover from their initial shock at an onslaught of wasted, tube-trailing zombies, and ignore the Cell's rapidly shifting distractions.

Jeff Tracy and his two co-defendants had been placed in their custody. He would not come to serious harm on _their_ watch. Storming the waiting room, twenty-two special agents soon brought down a flailing and hypnotized mob. They did not kill or apply excessive force, for the attackers weren't in control of themselves (said the top brass, who weren't in there doing the grunt work). But a big enough load of tranquilizers will bring down pretty near anything; medical zombies included. As for what to shoot at…

"Aim for the butts sticking out of those hospital gowns," said their chief, as he loaded the first dose.

Should have been simple, only some overzealous dead-eye shot Jeff Tracy, as well, dropping the blood-smeared tycoon like a clubbed seal. No one took credit for _that_ little mishap, which gave the damn lawyer… Boniface or whatever her name was… a whole bunch of leverage in court. The criminal investigation was very soon quietly dropped. Tracy got a big laugh out of it… and a really sore butt.

XXX

_Tracy Island, the simulator room-_

Things can turn around and go the right way in a dang quick hurry. One minute, Alan Tracy had been robbed, and was stuck in the midst of a mega-byte snowstorm with rank upon rank of glittering clones. Next minute, everything vanished, including Sir Gawain and his digi-ghost buddies. The air cleared, overhead lights flickered on, and the bare metal walls came back into view, just like nothing had happened.

Except, Alan noticed frowningly, that his Play-Station Nano was gone. Great. Awesome. Just have to buy a new one, he guessed. Or maybe get John to. Talking of which…

Alan gave an all over wriggle to reassure himself that his back and hips were still fixed. They worked like a charm, and that really _was_ awesome. Grinning like mad, the blond young man tapped his wrist comm, saying,

"John, check it out, bro! Situation's handled; viral baddies sent whimpering back to cyber-space. You can relax, now… except for everything else that's been going on."

Casting one last, satisfied look at the now-peaceful simulator, Alan turned and started loping for the door.

"So, fill me in, Astro-boy. Any word from Gordon? What about Scott and Virgil? How's their mission working out?"

Alan's grin faded and his lope slowed when nobody answered.

"John…? You listening, man?"

XXX

_Lima, Peru-_

In other news, an unconscious Caucasian male was dumped by persons unknown at the white marble steps of Madre de Dios hospital. Muscular, red-haired, in his early twenties, he'd been savagely beaten and shot with what appeared to be a small caliber firearm. Prognosis, uncertain.

Elsewhere, a robot drill rumbled downward. Largely unknown to the public, it churned without let-up through adamant rock, seeking its white-hot, slow spuming goal; the magma plume which was meant to conduct concentrated plasma to the Earth's slowing core. Only, this mission was the real one. This mission _had_ to succeed.


	72. 72: Who Can Say?

Thanks for reading and reviewing, Bee, Tikatu, Sam and Ginny-Star. I have to admit, the, uh, "medical-zombies" were just for fun. I like to play. _(Shot in the butt, and you're to blame, you give the undead a bad naaaame...)_

**72: Who Can Say?**

_Africa, at the mock drill-site, early that morning-_

It was the act of looking over the edge, they figured later, which must have triggered it; alerting motion sensors which detonated a second bomb, deliberately placed near his beacon. Hearing noises, Scott had crept close enough to peer over… with dawn and wreckage behind him, chaos and sirens before.

Something (a brief flash or faint _pop_) caused him to cut on his disaster-site force shield; the one meant to provide spot protection from collapsing debris and explosions. There was noise like a mighty hammer-blow, then. Like a brutal and physical force. He felt it clear on down to his quarks.

The already weakened drill platform simply disintegrated, becoming nothing but a cloud of smothering, gritty white dust. Scott Tracy was hurled backward thirty or forty feet; ears ringing, eyes shut, mouth open wide in a long, drowned-out scream.

Agents of the Cell had heard his broadcast and followed his beacon. Having studied their dead Master's enemies, they'd known he would come back to search for his brother. They'd wanted to kill him, and they very nearly succeeded.

XXX

_Lima, Peru-_

TinTin's brief, joyful success was soon overshadowed by terrible doubt and confusion. Though others (including a swiftly returning Penelope) told her, _'See, it is Gordon. He has been brought to us at the hospital,'_ she still could not sense him. Nor could the doctors later explain the presence of seawater in his lungs and soaked clothing.

By the look of things, he'd been beaten, shot and then dumped in the ocean to drown… only to next be fished out, brought hundreds of miles inland, and left at the one place were someone could quickly claim and identify him. But, how had "they" got him this far so quickly, completely unnoticed? And most of all _why_? The situation strained comprehension.

But Gordon was hurriedly whisked away to the intensive care unit, so TinTin could not get close enough to safely touch his unconscious mind. (She wanted no more disasters like that of Marina Dos Santos, and would not force her way in from afar. Not ever, _ever_ again!) And so, she waited. Like Lady Penelope and the family back home, TinTin Kyrano was forced to stand by and hope for Gordon's return to health and awareness. Until then, her nagging concerns would remain unanswered.

XXX

_Tracy Island, late evening-_

Alan's care-free lope had converted to a full-tilt gallop. He wasn't a track star, or anything (not in _this_ universe), but he could move pretty fast when he had to, and this was one of those times. All at once, he just had a sick, awful feeling that the disappearance of all those game-world figures had been matched by the loss of something… or somebody… here.

So Alan Tracy sprinted right back the way he'd earlier come; through sterile tan corridors and print-locked lab doors to the elevator and office. Racing for the entrance, he heard someone moving around inside the big room, and smiled with relief.

"John!" he shouted aloud, bursting through those half-open, big wooden doors, "S'up, bro? Too busy and famous to answer your comm, anymore? I…"

Only, it wasn't John in there rustling papers and picking up calls. It was their blonde, lovely mother, Lucinda Tracy.

"Hello, Sweetie," she said, when Alan came hurtling into the office (bar-stool-and-cushion free) "you seem to be feeling better! You haven't seen your brother, though, have you…? It isn't like him to just walk out in the middle of things."

That sick feeling grew suddenly worse, while the pit of Alan's stomach sank right down there to join the Earth's core. He managed to shake his head, _no_, but Alan's heart was racing faster than a bright red stock-car, and his mind was entirely elsewhere.

"Uh… no, mom. But I could go check the bathrooms, if you want. He might've eaten too much of that bacon-mac."

Stranger things than a badly upset stomach had been known to happen, but the flimsy excuse did not seem to satisfy Lucy. Having got her small youngest son washed up, put to bed, sung for and read to, she looked weary and bedraggled in her dinnertime finery; dog-eared with equal parts worry and doubt.

"You do that, sweetie," sighed Lucy, running a manicured hand through her hair. "I'll keep trying from here. On the bright side, your father's legal team finally rang. Things might be looking up, in the investigation."

Uh-huh. Edging back through the office doors, Alan nodded and smiled like a big dashboard bobble-head. She hadn't found out about Gordon, yet... assumed that Scott and Virgil were simply too busy to talk (brushing the dust off a few last, grateful victims, or something)... and that John had just stepped out for air.

Well… let her keep thinking that. In the meantime, Al had to work out just who to call and which questions to ask. _Brains,_ and _"Dude, what the heck?"_ were all he came up with.

XXX

_Far underground, but staggering upward-_

"Save your breath," Paul told Cindy, not unkindly. She'd been drunkenly narrating their movements and perils for hours, now. "The station's… uh… switched to a commercial break. Anchor's in the restroom, or something."

The tunnel they found themselves in throbbed with rumbling tremors and heat. (Like hell, on a really bad day.) Myrna Sanderson was too far gone to do more than groan, but physically, Captain Metcalfe had never felt better. Okay… his protective gear had been almost entirely cooked off of him, leaving the modest Spectrum officer clothed with nothing but blushes and scraps… but he was alive; buzzing and bursting with some form of weird sparking energy. Not only that, but he'd managed to shield his two crewmates. A miracle. An act of God. It had to be.

"Gotta… tell wha happen…" Cindy mumbled insistently, too weak and concussed to notice his state of glowing undress. "Worl' needsa know wha happen here…"

"They will," he explained patiently, "just as soon as… as soon as that Thigh-Master 3000 infomercial wraps up. You know how long those things are! They've got three ex-action stars and the Discovery Adventure Team shilling it. Could be hours."

"Bought one…" Cindy protested woozily, scowling at the unwelcome thought of infomercials in general and the Thigh-Master in particular. "Doesn' work for shit."

Metcalfe's face coloured, but he ignored her use of rough language.

"I'll be sure and tell them you said so," he replied, steering the wobbly reporter through an obstacle course of deep, slanting tread-marks and drill-slashes. (Dr. Sanderson was draped over his left shoulder like a casually-flung sports jacket; too weak to stand.) "There's a 1-800 number."

"Wan' go home," Cindy complained just then, looking more vulnerable than Paul had ever seen her. "Hate this XXXX-ing place."

Metcalfe nodded, giving the reporter's smudged arm a quick, gentle squeeze.

"We'll get out of here," he promised rashly. "Everything's gonna be fine, Ms. Taylor."

That, of course, was before he encountered the first cindered rescue team.

XXX

Elsewhere, a halfling, a dark elf, two orcs and a shape-changer clambered down through a certain deep hole; the sort of route for which one is well advised to bring mirror-polished shields and golden bowls for ghostly blood-offerings. With them came Britte, whose master had not yet returned, and Arnulf (who simply had nowhere else left to go).


	73. 73: A Far Cry

Hi, there. Me, again, with my last post until next week. Ended up being longer than I expected, though. Thanks for reviewing, Bee and Tikatu. I appreciate all the kind, helpful comments. =) Edited.

**73: A Far Cry**

_Africa's torn and rumbling Rift Valley-_

He was thrown backward; tumbling head over legs through a storm of roiling concrete dust, ringing like a tuning fork with the force of that blast. A second mighty concussion… he'd fallen and struck something… caused the force-field to collapse and his heads-up display to crash. Not just flicker or fade, but vanish from his cracked, smudgy helmet, entirely. So on top of everything else, he'd just been effectively blinded.

John had experienced something similar once, out on the Moon. He'd told Scott all about it over beers on the patio deck, one afternoon.

_"Just sit tight and wait,"_ he'd advised. _"Nine times out of ten, the suit's smart systems reset and repair themselves. It's panic in the meantime that'll kill you, Scott."_

Right. So, he huddled there, peppered by the gritty, swishing rattle of wind-borne dust and debris. Wanting to run or fight, but not doing it. Couldn't see a damn thing, not even his own gloved hands…! Then a foggy, projected green square came up in his helmet, sparking a bit at the edges. The virtual screen. Scott held his breath, recalling the rest of John's story.

_"Helmet display came up just as I decided to risk heading off on my own. Good thing I waited so long. Better thing, that suit has a waste-flow sleeve, because four more steps to the right, and I'd have plunged off the edge of an unmapped crater. They'd have ended up naming it after me, but on the whole, I prefer the alternative. Beer and sunshine beats a grave on the Moon, Scott. Best advice you'll get all day."_

John's display had blinked back to life, and so did Scott's, filling that virtual screen up with medical data, a whirling green compass and best of all, accurate maps. The astronaut's doing, probably, from all the way back on the Island.

"Thanks, little brother," he said aloud, just in case John was receiving him. "I've just been through some kind of explosion, probably a bomb. I'm whole and able to move. No sign of Virgil, though. Didn't see him there before the blast, so I'm heading for the field hospital. If you can hear this, Johnny, send back-up."

Then he grunted and creaked to his feet; every muscle in his body seizure-cramped sore. According to the ghost-green display, the triage and broadcast station lay _that_ way, across two miles of rugged terrain.

Colonel Kimfume had promised that Virgil would be taken there, so Scott went, too. Slowly, he threaded his way among the hazards marked out by his visor in flashing red, stopping to render aid wherever he could. Between one thing and another, he ended up with quite a string of tethered survivors stumbling along behind him, red-eyed and gasping. Nearly ten of them, following Scott through abrasive dust clouds to safety. Together, they reached the site's chaotic tent-and-Quonset hut field hospital, but there was no rest, even then. Not with his brothers missing and Mom close to panic. Not with the genuine mission in trouble.

XXX

_Tracy Island, outside the office-_

Far enough away that he couldn't be heard, Alan paused in the gorgeously-carpeted hallway. Looking around, he hit the wall-comm's search feature and then ducked into a handy doorway. Mom was busy, but Ricky might have got up, and Kyrano was somewhere about, checking on news of his daughter. Best to carefully scan the locale and be really, seriously quiet.

Who he needed to reach was Brains. Unfortunately, the engineer wasn't present… but that's why dad had provided them all with wrist-comms. Even small Rick had a Mickey Mouse version which gave only his health and location. Point being, it was really hard to get lost on Tracy Island.

Right. Tapping the comm screen, Alan flicked through its list till he came to the image of Hackenbacker (looking spectacled, sloppy and smart). Then he tapped it again, sending forth a swift call-signal. Time and microwaves fly, so Al was answered in maybe a heartbeat, by their grim and worried chief engineer.

_"Y- Yes, Alan? What, ah… what is it? You h- have news about the Drill M- Mission?"_

(Poor Brains was still in the mission "control center", convinced that this first among mock-ups was genuine. He was also deeply concerned about Myrna.) Alan had planned to just lay it all out there, telling Brains everything that had happened in the simulator room, and all about John's disappearance. Only… faced with the pale, clamp-mouthed scientist, he didn't know quite where to start.

"Uh… no. I haven't received any mission alerts, except a few times from Scott and Virgil… but mostly nothing from them, even. But, hey… no news is good news, right?"

Hackenbacker's expression darkened, and he said, in a grating, impatient voice,

_"Is there a point to this call, Alan? B- Because I am needed, ah… needed elsewhere, if n- not."_

What to say? How to explain what had happened and ask for some help? Alan had never been one to think matters all the way through before speaking. Better first time that never at all, though...

"Brains! _Dude,_ man… you won't believe what just happened, 'cause I halfway don't, myownself, but John's disappeared and there was this weird gaming-virus that attacked our computer system and tried taking over! It was intense, dude. I'm serious! Some kind of cloned defense program struck through the simulator room, just after Gordon's rough landing, or maybe before that, when Scott and Virgil made it to Africa after one of those decoys blew up…"

He had to pause, then, for air and some clarity. So much had happened in the last twelve hours, so much of it bad.

"Anyways, mom doesn't realize that Gordon's gone missing, 'cause nobody's told her. Kyrano knows, I think. Yeah… I'm pretty sure that Kyrano's on top of what's happened in Lima… but he'll do like Scott said and keep it to himself. Only, there's no way mom's gonna _not_ notice that John's dropped off the face of the Earth, when he's supposed to still be in the house. So you gotta help me come up with a plan, Brains. Like, lightning-quick."

The engineer's image rubbed its throbbing small temples with the miniature fingers of one hand, making its glasses bob up and down. Al would have laughed, if the frickin' world hadn't been falling apart in his lap.

_"I'll see what I can d- do,"_ Brains replied, _"But th- things have gone wrong over, ah… over here, too, Alan. W- We've lost contact with the, ah… the Drill Mission crew, and our g- government liaison couldn't c- care less. The fate of th- the world m- may depend on this mission!"_ And then, more softly, _"Myrna's aboard that d- drill…"_

Ooookay… there'd be no further help from the number-crunching contingent, obviously. Hackenbacker had pretty well lost it.

"Yeah, uh… you do what you can over there, Brains. I'll keep holding down this end and looking for John. Um… as soon as Virgil and Scott get back, you want us to head up a Drill Mission rescue party? The Mole's almost through being fixed, and…"

Brains' little image gave a swift headshake, causing its lank, dark-brown hair to flap untidily.

_"N- No, Alan. There's, ah… there's not m- much point, with the M- Mole at less th- than a hundred percent. Let's plan a c- call back in th- thirty minutes with, ah… with status updates."_

Alan's stomach plunged further. Someone in China would be scooping it up, soon, exclaiming in shock and surprise.

"Okay. Sure thing, dude. I'll keep you posted. TTYL."

And then he cut contact, which was sort of rude, but, hey… if a guy was going to be pretty much frickin' _worthless, _he deserved whatever he got. Okay, so… back to square one. Think, Alan told himself. _Think_!

XXX

_Well beneath North America, inching their way through a cracked and unstable tunnel-_

Dr. Sanderson had begun to revive a little; enough, at least, to protest being carried.

"I can walk," Myrna insisted, feeling like she'd spent the last four hours in the rotating drum of a cement-mixer. "Put me down!"

Paul gladly did so. Not that she'd felt very heavy, or had tired him out… nothing seemed able to do that, now… only it felt weird, being more than half-naked while carrying an unconscious woman over one shoulder. If Simone ever found out…!

He needn't have worried, because Cindy was punch-drunk and Myrna in deep, private mourning for the lost plasma generator. Her life's work and her baby, gone. Neither woman was in the mood to store up embarrassing anecdotes.

"I'm sorry," said Paul, guessing the source of the physicist's pain. "I know that you worked awfully hard on that generator…"

Myrna stared through him expressionlessly.

"It's more than that," she replied in a faint, toneless voice. "The drill and generator were our chance to save Earth. We're doomed, now, except for whoever's wealthy or well-connected enough to rate a spot on Mars or the Moon. Effectively, Captain Metcalfe, human history is about to end."

But Cindy wasn't having any. She shook her aching head, clearing a bit of the fog.

"Nuh-uh. I don' believe that," the reporter growled at short, sagging Myrna. "Plan A craps out, you switch to plan B. Keep dancing till something works out. My dad told me that. Chief of Police, San Francisco, California."

"And Spectrum would back that sentiment up all the way," finished Paul, forcing himself to seem confident. "After all, we've made it this far. Somebody's _got_ to be looking out for us. I know it. I _feel_ it."

Myrna rolled her eyes, but kept silent. Long experience with missionary parents had taught her that there was simply no arguing with a fanatic. But whatever Paul said, she knew that their blind, random universe would get them all, in the end, leaving nothing behind but a brief quantum ripple. Maybe not even that.

She followed along when Paul and Cindy resumed walking, because there was nothing else to do except wait for death from thirst or exhaustion or tunnel collapse. The going was hard, but Dr. Sanderson refused to be carried. She did accept Metcalfe's hand over deep cracks and ditches, however. No sense in being foolish.

As these things work out, it was Paul who first spotted the blast-damaged wreck. Flipped over, it was; halfway blocking the tunnel. Paint had been burnt off the thing, and reinforced windows blown out. Its tank-like treads hung limp and unthreaded, trailing across the rough tunnel floor. Caught by the blast, probably… and just as probably no survivors, but Captain Metcalfe had to be sure.

"Who was looking out for _them?_" lashed Sanderson, bitterly.

Paul pretended that he hadn't heard.

"Wait over here," he told Cindy. But Taylor had been a war correspondent, once upon a ratings-dip; there wasn't much that she hadn't already seen and reported on.

"I might be able to help," she said to him, limping along in Paul's wake. Glad for the company, he didn't refuse her offer.

Inside, once he'd pried open a half-melted hatch, things were just as bad as he'd feared. There was nothing to do for their would-be rescuers but say a quick prayer, promise decent burial later, and then leave.

He and Cindy climbed hurriedly out of the wrecked crawler, reeking of anguish and char. They found Myrna sitting nearby on the frozen crest of a drill-slash, but her face was wet, and she'd nothing scornful to say.

"How many?" she asked, very quietly.

"Four," supplied Paul, looking back.

"You don't suppose… don't suppose one of them was Hiram, do you? Dr. Hackenbacker, I mean?" Myrna's voice was quite hoarse with badly pent tears. "It would be just like him to come after me, if he knew there was danger."

Paul didn't know what to say. Honestly, the condition of the remains prevented identification, but _she_ didn't need to hear that. Cindy, it was, who came up with,

"No. All the brass and bits I saw would have come off a uniform, and Hackenbacker's a civilian. Ninety-percent certain he wasn't in there, Myrna."

Weak with stress and emotion, Dr. Sanderson covered her face with her hands and started to cry. She didn't protest when Paul picked her up and carried her onward.

XXX

_Midworld, in spelled, fragile shelter from thundering chaos and terror-_

Leadership fell to Drehn, because Gawain hadn't returned and Frodle had rather advise than command. Britte, of course, was too young and untested… Allat too foolish… and the orc-brothers better at fighting than strategy.

Not that the elf had much notion, at first, what to do. Huge, awful creatures were stalking the land, these days; monsters and giants who'd last seen daylight in ancient prehistory… but the great heroes and gods' sons who'd dealt with them last were long gone. So the question: _what now, _was met with a few moments of stunned, blinking silence. Then…

"Very simple. Gawain asked us to climb down below and spell some life back into the wretched World-Tree, so that's what we'll do."

It was the start of a plan, at any rate. Young Britte made bold to reach out and touch the drow's arm.

"Sir Drehn, are you able to call him back to us, through spell-craft or sorcery? He did as his lord bade him, I'm sure of it!"

Frodle was swifter to get his thoughts together than Drehn. He'd also just finished strengthening the wards 'round the circle of antique stones they'd sought shelter in.

"A god such as Gawain serves is a most rigid and demanding being, Young Squire. If the knight fell short of his god's expectation in _any _respect, he would surely be punished, possibly even with de…"

"No," Drehn cut in, handing out shreds of dried meat for their supper. "He's not dead. He just isn't here. But that's no real problem, because a god banished him, it will take the same god to bring him back and…"

The elf smiled suddenly; a savage expression, entirely lacking in humor. "...Thanks to Gawain, I know the bastard's true name. He'll appear like a djinn once called, but we'd better have something to offer in return for the knight and the insult."

"A healed World-Tree?" hazarded Glud, his human-like eyes very blue and wide.

"Exactly," said the elf, slapping his friend's massive shoulder.

Allat wasn't so pleased. Scattering feathers and droppings, the shape-changer converted to crow-form and circled overhead, predicting disaster for all.

"Danger," he shrieked. "Stupid!"

Next, Allat dove like a falcon at Drehn, Arnulf and Glud.

"Suicide!"

Frodle stilled Allat with a single sharp word and a sweep of his upraised wood staff. The crow hung in the frigid air overhead; not moving or speaking, but looking as puff-feathered-wrathful as a bird could possibly manage.

"He's correct," sighed the scholar, frowning distractedly up at their motionless comrade. "You're proposing a monstrous risk, Friend Elf."

Drehn snorted rudely.

"Then back out, if you're nervous. Go home to your cloister of wise, cozy sages. Except that I'll bet they're in trouble, now, too… as are the folk of my cavern, the High King, our ally Samara, and all the good people of Falkirk. _Everyone's_ in danger right now, Sir Scholar. And, besides… I'll have him by the godly short-hairs, twisting hard. He'll have to grant my request."

"Or else squash you like a bothersome moth," Glud objected. _"Smush!_ Like this, and no more elf. Just silvery dust and smeared guts."

But Drehn merely shrugged.

"Then I'm squashed. So be it," he said. "One less drow. Gawain's a friend and I owe him my life. I'll do this alone if I have to."

Glud and Voreig roared approval, thumping imaginary tankards upon a non-existent feasting board. Boldness and lost causes appealed very much to the psyche of half-orcs, it seemed.

"We go, as well," bellowed Glud, shaking his coarse, dark mane. "And what a song shall be made of this trap-for-a-god!"

Said Britte, stepping forth with a hand upon Arnulf and Chester,

"We'll come, too, if you'll have us, Sir Drehn. A squire's place is with her lord, or in staunchest defense of him."

In the end, even the shape-changer went, though the way was long, and the going horribly dangerous. What had they to lose which meant more than each other, after all?


	74. 74: Love and its Consequences

Thanks for your reviews, Sam and Bee. Responses forthcoming, as are edits to this slender bit.

**74: Love and its Consequences**

_Tracy Island, well outside of the office-_

Unfortunately, Alan was no closer to a well-thought-out plan after speaking to Brains than he had been before. So much for uber-think smart guys, right? Nearer to home, the walls had no answers, and the carpet just lay there, looking stupidly flowered in scarlet and gold. Just as well; if it could've talked to him, the rug would probably only have said: _Your shoes are dirty._

Anyways, he was standing there in the library threshold waiting for something clever to strike him, when somebody said (in a scared little whisper),

"Alan…? That's you, Alan? You's there?"

Ricky's voice; sounding most of the way between sleepy and scared. Alan turned to see his dark-haired baby brother (cleansed of pasta and attitude, both) peeking round the hall corner. With him was an oft-rubbed and much-loved stuffed toy named Mister Bear. Both wore colorful footie pajamas with matching astronaut patches from dad and John's favourite missions. Both were seriously rumpled and far from their bed. Right. Alan had stuff to do, people to find, but he smiled anyhow and loped on over to Ricky.

"Hey, there, buddy… What's up? Why're you out of bed so late? Mom's gonna fry you for sure, if she _sees_ you up here."

Ricky flung both arms out and upward, in a small child's appeal to be scooped up and comforted. Looking as pitiful as a toddler could manage, he said,

"I had a bad dream, Alan. I woked up an' ebrything!"

"Aww, c'mon, now…" Alan stooped down to pick up his brother and the now mostly bald Mister Bear (who'd been a gift for Scott one year, and then passed on to each brother, since).

"S' okay, buddy. Everyone gets nightmares, but it's all good in the morning, trust me. No more monsters. Not even under the bed."

Hugging Ricky, he blew a loud raspberry on the boy's warm little cheek and said,

"You wanna tell me about it? Sometimes that helps. I used to talk to Gordon about all of mine, he talked to Virgil… Virge talked to John (who was all like, "It's just brain chemistry, get over it"). John kept things to himself, I think... kinda like Scott. But _you_…" Alan tossed Ricky up and then caught him, again, saying, "You got _me,_ you lucky kid, you! Dr. Tracy is on the case. Hit me with the scary clowns and the pouncing broccoli, kiddo. I can take it."

But Rick didn't laugh or squeal in response. Instead, once settled back in Alan's arms he nodded solemnly, his dark eyes as wide and moist as a puppy-dog's.

"Okay, Alan. But it was a bad, _bad_ dream. You might gets scared. But you could have Mister Bear for a hug if you gets scared of the dream, okay?"

"F.A.B.," replied the smiling young man, accepting the family teddy bear. "Fire away."

The little boy took a deep, gulping breath and then started to talk. It was difficult, obviously, because the words came out in short bursts, like they burned him, or something.

"I got… got shot by a gun… an', an'… it hurted a lot… an' then I was in the water… an' I called daddy an' mommy for help… an'… an' you and Scott and Mister Bear… buh, buh… but nobody heard me! I got _drownded_, Alan!"

"Whoa… hey… don't cry, Rick. It's just a dream, okay? I'm here, and you're fine. Nothing's gonna get you, Rickster. Not while I'm around! Promise, I'd jump in to save you from drowning, anytime."

Backing those words up with action, Alan hugged the small child very tightly and patted his heaving back. Swayed back and forth a little, too, the way mom and dad had always done, when _he_ woke up with nightmares.

"Shhh… shhh… shhh… It's okay. Everything's fine. You're safe now, Rick, and so's everyone else. Mom, dad, John… everybody. Swear to goodness and popsicle sticks."

But in Alan's heart that tight little knot of worry grew suddenly bigger. Just a kid's bad dream, though… wasn't it?

XXX

_The Rift Valley decoy site, Africa-_

There were a great many victims and scurrying medics in the triage center. More than Scott Tracy could count or take in all at once. His brother's survival suit had a radio beacon, but it might have shut off, if someone removed the suit to perform first aid. Too bad, Scott couldn't help thinking, as he strode amid long rows of cots, that his brothers weren't somehow micro-chipped. Might've been handy, that.

Some of the figures were sheeted and still. But superstition and sheer, blind stubbornness prevented Scott from looking at any of _those._ Of course, Virgil wasn't among the white-sheeted corpses, because that would mean that Virgil was dead, and none of his brothers could die. He refused to allow it. Therefore, Scott searched only among the living, and that took awhile.

For one thing, he had enough medical training to lend a hand, here and there. For another, when people called out in fear and confusion, he couldn't just walk right past them. He had to say something; pat a shoulder or fetch an ice chip; offer encouragement. And the big central Quonset hut… once a decoy-drill staging area… rang with such pleas.

Scott very swiftly lost track of time. Helijets clattered outside of the dented and quivering walls. Trucks rumbled, clashing their gears as they pulled up for a fresh load of hospital-bound patients. Medics shouted for assistance or supplies, while uniformed troops stalked across the cement floor, rifles ready in case the Cell tried anything else. Scott negotiated the chaos as best he could until finally, amid all of that surging noise, he heard the one thing he'd been straining so long to detect.

"Scott…? Here. M' over here."

Many years later, wealthy and almost alone, Scott Tracy would still call this one of the happiest moments he'd ever experienced. Pivoting (and to hell with security), the pilot shouted,

"_Virgil!_ Virge, where are you?"

…and got a feeble wave from the splinted-up, bandaged mess three cots down. He sprinted, just about _teleported_ the distance, and then had to windmill and side-hop to avoid crashing on top of his injured brother. Wanted to laugh, pick him up and toss him high in the air, just for being alive… but that was stupid. Virgil wasn't a little kid he could grab by the hands and swing around till they both fell down dizzy. Not anymore.

"John!" he called into his staticky helmet comm. "I've found him! You might want to whistle up that doctor friend of yours, again. Thanks to dumb-ass, here, she'd going to be busy for awhile."

Then, without waiting for his second brother's reply, he stooped down to demand,

"Virge, you okay? Everything still in one piece and attached?" adding, in almost the same breath, "what the hell happened? What'd you step off the edge, like that, for?"

But his brother's brown eyes were filled with something like desperation. Something very much like a tooth-and-nail battle for conscious control.

"Scott, listen," he panted. "It's hard to stay… they want us to… supposed to go back to our jobs, find whatever… most harm we can wreak… lock ourselves in, do it, and then commit suicide. All over the world… everyone he's ever… ever gotten hold of. Tell dad. Get the word out. Things're about to go wrong, Scott… all at once and all over the place. Tell John and Brains."

The smile and the blood drained from Scott Tracy's face with just about equal rapidity, then.

XXX

_Lima, Peru, at the Hospital de la Madre de Dios-_

TinTin may not have been able to sense nor reach Gordon, but she soon got a message from Kyrano, her honored dear father. Via wrist-comm it arrived, with a bright, welcome chime.

_"Daughter," _spoke the recorded voice, _"are you well? There is no need to reply immediately, but as soon as you may, let me know. My heart shall not beat, and I will not breathe, until I learn that my child, Aisah's bright flower, yet lives."_

For security reasons, she tapped the screen only once in reply. Just once. After that, crouched upon her hospital bed, shoulders quivering, TinTin began to weep. Tears and exhaustion blurred all the world to a badly-smeared water-colour, and then to the darkness of dreaming and sleep.


	75. 75: Redefined Happenstance

One more slim little fic-bit. Think from now on I'll use those "Are you human?" code-word pairs to name all my chapters. Should prove obscure and amusing. (Only thought of that because this particular title looks roboticly assembled.)

**75: Redefined Happenstance**

_Tracy Island, in the hallway outside of Jeff's office-_

A strange lot of things came about, few of them recognized at the time they occurred; and some never noticed, at all. As the robot drill-mission snarled and rasped its way lower… as the Hood's victims positioned themselves for maximum damage… Alan reached a decision. John was still missing? Fine, he'd handle the office, himself.

Ought to have put Ricky in bed, first, but the kid was still pretty shaken by all the bad-dream stuff, and his big brother just didn't have enough time for more counseling.

"C'mon, Kiddo," he ordered, setting Rick on his shoulders. "You and Mister Bear are coming with me to the office. Only, I've got work to do, so keep the bear quiet, okay? You _know_ how he gets."

(It was a long-standing Tracy tradition that all the boys' mischief began with that saggy old bear.)

"Okay, Alan," Ricky agreed, with a tremulous smile in his voice. "Mister Bear says he'll be good. Right, Mister Bear? Right, you'll be good? He nuh… he nodded, Alan."

"Nod, nothing," Al muttered, half-seriously. "He better dang well press buttons and answer the phones! Everyone pulls their weight around here, even stuffed bears." Then,

"Hang on tight, you two. We're on our way."

So saying, Alan faced the right direction and began trotting back up the long hall to dad's office; purposely putting a little horsey-style bounce in his step for the boy's sake. Noisy and tiring, sure; but Rick's presence would maybe keep mom too preoccupied to ask about John.

They came skidding through the doors to find their mother with a cell phone in one hand, typing out keyboard commands with the other. Premier Kwame's scowling face took up a whole wall screen, Spectrum's Colonel White another. Jeff was on a third comm, looking weary and tense. He was quite obviously speaking to someone off-camera, though Alan didn't know who. Lucy had quite fortunately remembered to turn on the voice-and-image distorters, so her contacts couldn't see one another (or her).

"Hey, Mom. He's, uh… busy," said Alan, purposely vague. He could've been talking about ninety percent of the family, just then. But, of course, she thought he meant John. "I'm pitching in for awhile, okay? So's Ricky."

"An' Mister Bear!" chimed the little one, bouncing up and down hard on his big brother's shoulders while waving that stupid dang toy.

"_And_ Mister Bear. We got this, Mom. No worries."

"Well, I don't know…"

Lucinda Tracy smoothed her blonde hair with an elegant pianist's hand, seeming about to object. She was tired, though, very new at this and awfully glad of their presence.

Still talking to the North African Premier, Lucy fetched an old blanket from the room's closet and made a nest on the couch for Ricky and Mister Bear. What the voice-distorter made of her kissing-game noises, she neither knew nor cared… but Premier Kwame paused for a bit, looking startled.

Alan just grinned, poured himself a fresh cherry soda and went to work. First things first: Scott and Virgil's mission to Africa.

XXX

_At a busy triage center in the smoldering Rift Valley-_

Scott, too, had reached a decision. Whatever was going on… whatever had taken hold of his brother… could best be dealt with back home. So he remotely summoned a grav-cart from Thunderbird 1, then got a couple of soldiers to help him load and secure Virgil on top of the bobbing, make-shift stretcher. Didn't have to sign him out, or anything, because in all of that noise and confusion, nobody noticed the removal of one nameless patient. Things got harder outside, though.

Having been a fighter pilot, Scott could guide the cart, scan for obstacles and fiddle with the setting of his helmet comm all at once. On a good day, he could even chew gum.

"Island Base, from Thunderbird 1 remote team. Do you copy? John…? Dad…? Anyone listening, over there?"

_"This is Island Base, receiving you loud and clear, Thunderbird 1. What's going on?"_

It was Alan's voice, but Scott didn't hesitate.

"Base," he said, guiding the floating cart past a stack of plastic-wrapped crates and an ambulance. "The decoy crew has been rescued, and I'm on my way back to the 'Bird. I'll be flying home with possible vehicle damage, and a casualty."

_"Casu…"_ Alan started to repeat in quick, high-pitched tones. Then, more professionally, _"How bad's the situation?"_

"Unknown damage to the 'Bird. She may have been far enough from that second blast to escape unscathed. Broken bones and a mild concussion, possible shock and disorientation for Virgil, I think. It'll take a doctor to be sure, though."

He squinted at Africa's fierce golden sun, which had already turned that gash in the rocky landscape to a cauldron of smoke and broiling light.

"What about Gordon? Any news?" Scott demanded, returning his gaze to the debris and hurrying traffic around him.

_"Yeah, actually. Our Peruvian contact just called in with word from the hospital. He's pretty torn up, but alive."_

Scott Tracy unclenched just a bit, for the second time in one day. Something inside himself had been held tense and ready, just in case. But the famous Tracy luck had come through, once again. Maybe it always would.

"That's really good to hear, Base. He and Virge can get together and swap bull-shit stories in ICU. Listen, though: I'm told that not all of the Cell's eggs have hatched, yet. There's one last plan, involving sabotage and mass suicides in critical or dangerous areas. Get the word out, quick as you can, Al."

_"I'm on it,"_ his brother replied stoutly, sounding like a man. _"You take care of Virge and get yourself home. Dad's on his way, too."_

Scott nodded grimly, saying,

"F.A.B. Back before you know it, Base."

Wreathed in smoke and glittering from the occasional sun-spear, Thunderbird 1 turned from a dot on Scott's heads-up display to a real and reachable aircraft; condition unknown. Virgil tossed restlessly about on his floating stretcher, meanwhile, held down by nylon straps meant to secure equipment and weaponry. He wasn't going anywhere Scott didn't want him to.

_Home,_ thought Jeff's oldest son. Or maybe Peru, if dad ordered him to swing by and pick up TinTin and Gordon. But that would come later. Just now he had a brother to stow and a plane to start up. Just now, as Alan had claimed about John, he was busy.

XXX

Thanks to International Rescue, urgent warnings went out all over the Earth and nascent Moon Base; too late in some cases, barely on time in others. They were heeded and acted upon because so much damage had already been done by the Cell. And because no one needed to be told twice that a rabid dog bites.

Governments, emergency teams and military bases went to high alert and immediate lock-down, with all personnel toted up and accompanied. Didn't stop a certain Conrad Lefkon from blowing up the flight deck of Spectrum's Sky Base, but did save countless other lives and the robot drill-mission.

XXX

_Lima, Peru-_

Later that night, TinTin was hit with what felt like a bucket of psionic ice-water. She knew the instant that Gordon awoke because his confusion and panic stabbed her like knives. She knew, and she raced to his side, as fast as two slender legs and a shivering body could carry her.


	76. 76: Renewal

Sorry so late! The weekend was kind of crazy, in a fun way. 55 F-degree weather and we all decide to pile in the car after Mass and then go to the beach. Startled a couple necking in the bushes, but that's another story. Thanks for reviewing, Sam, Bee and Tikatu. I go forth now to read and respond. Edited.

**76: Renewal**

_Midworld-_

In places of myth and legend, when something is meant to be found, a way will appear. Better still, magick weapons and armour show up as though God-sent, ferried by beautiful maidens. So it was with Midworld, sort of.

A small herd of creatures led by a drow through landscapes torn up and altered with each godly hammer-blow could not simply follow the path laid out in old songs. Not when gargantuan monsters had smashed to bits the peaks of Ravencroft and Snowhelm. Not when battling serpents had gouged out entire new valleys and shifted the course of rivers. Put simply, there weren't any landmarks.

Not even the ancient ley-lines could be trusted, for these were faded and flickering, now, leaving the party to proceed as best they might; like struggling ants on a newly ploughed field. Here the shape-changer shone, for Allat could take on the form of a brass-armoured digger, a creature which ate and metabolized rock.

(Left behind diamonds, as well. Or long veins of jade, when its gut was upset.) At any rate, with a digger's unfailing sense of direction, Allat snuffed out the path which led else-ward. The only one _not_ ending in chasms or blind, empty tunnels.

In the meantime, Drehn and the scholar wielded whatever protection their faltering spells could provide. Shielding, strength and concealment they wrought, but only when the others stayed close together. Glud and Voreig dealt with the physical threats, though these were surprisingly few. Lesser monsters and demons were too busy fleeing destruction to pause for a snack, most moving on at the sight of twin, glinting spear points.

The werewolf's nose was keenest, once he'd accustomed himself to this new range of senses. He could smell trouble while it was yet in the "stupid idea" phase; reacting with sharp yips and snapping teeth whenever they strayed too far toward danger. And of that, there was more than enough.

Gods and monsters ravaged the skies overhead, making rain of strange blood and weird metals. Both were dangerous, changing whatever they touched. The noise and fury were indescribable, even filtered through Drehn's highest-strength spells. Indescribable, except to say that it looked and sounded like the end of existence; like blizzard, thunder and warfare combined. They couldn't have withstood much more of such madness.

Then Allat located their opening. He halted suddenly at the mouth of a slanting, hillside cave. One of many, thereabouts, except that this one remained stable despite all the shaking and chaos. This one was warded and misty inside, and it smelt very different. His clawed feet and brass plates rattled wildly at the proper entrance, making a clatter like hail. Barely in time, they'd found a way inward.

Just as an enormous, earth-girdling serpent reared itself out of the ocean, belching foul gases, sluicing water and shipwrecks from island-sized scales… as glowing hordes coalesced on the beast… Allat bellowed aloud and plunged downward. The others rushed to follow him, leaving behind them conflict and storm.

The region below was quieter, not being entirely physical. Runnels of silvery power lined the cave's mouth and its curving stone walls, forming what seemed to be pictures and runes.

"Don't touch," warned the halfling, when a wide-eyed Britte and Chester would have put forth their hands to flick at the streaming-bright marks. "Not if you'd care to walk the surface again, one day."

Frodle had drawn up the hood of his sooty old robe, casting his face into shadow. His voice was weary and hoarse from spell-chanting, and the hand on his staff shook a bit. He didn't look like much, but Britte heeded him, anyhow. Nodding, she stepped away from that silver-scored wall, tugging the centaur backward, as well.

The underground chamber they found themselves in wasn't high enough to permit her to ride, so she'd clasped hands with Chester to walk alongside him. The floor they stood upon was tiled black and white, not like a cavern at all, but more like that of some ancient, rock-hewn citadel. Britte had heard of such places, but never expected to see more for herself than barnyard and croft. Unless it were mockery, put up by traveling players.

Chester stamped a hoof and shook himself, filling the air with dust-motes and hair. His tail switched nervously, but she patted his hand, saying,

"There, now, Chet. We're out of the wind, at least."

A hesitant, cold nose poked into her other hand, so she patted the werewolf, as well, scratching his ears like one of milord's slender hunting dogs.

"Shh-shh," she encouraged her friends. "We've only to stay close and do as we're bidden, and all will be well. It's just like a tale, you know. Marta befooled the demon-prince, after all, and got off with half of his gold. No doubt, we'll do even better."

There were only two ways to go from this antechamber. One way led upward, back to the strife and the gods'-rain above. The other descended through a tunnel mouth warded by two misty shadows, one on either side of the opening. Like patches of greenish dank fog, they hovered above their own cracked and half-buried skulls; watching.

"They'll want blood," Drehn announced briskly, drawing his knife. "A few drops from each who would pass. Standard fee."

Britte swallowed hard but stepped forward, determined to do her bit. Glud and Voreig came up, as well, along with Chester, the scholar and Allat (once more in humanoid form). But Arnulf just licked his short muzzle and whined. He scarcely knew these folk, and the quest was not his; nor was his mind quite a man's.

In the end, though, he followed Britte. It was that, or face Blanchard's big teeth and hard hooves; a prospect the wolf did not savor. Eight hasty cuts were then made on all but the horses, who would remain safely stabled in the antechamber. Red blood spattered and steamed in a bright metal bowl, which they next set out for the famished gate-wardens.

Gawain might have dispelled and released the pair, but nobody here had the knack. Drehn could only wave his companions through the arching stone portal while its guardians stooped for their blood-fee. They were like a chill, clinging mist to pass between; like thin cobwebs which combed through the stuff of one's body, leaving a permanent mark. The elf went through last of all; ready with spells and his sword, just in case.

A bit farther in, Britte shivered and coughed, using a farm-girl's craft of healing and strength on the wounds of her friends. Only Drehn refused her touch, making do with a dark-elf brew which seared the flesh as it sealed up his cut. He had more dread of "blessings" than scars… and besides, such marks pleased the lasses.

"So much for the first barrier," said Frodle, once all were healed up and re-gathered. "There remain two more, if my fellow scholars dreamt truly."

"Huh," snorted Glud, flexing big, tattooed arms. "If all are so easy, we'll finish by night-fall."

But the halfling only grimaced. More helpfully, Drehn shook his blond head, saying,

"Most things run smoothly, at the start. Once you're well in, though, the trap shows its teeth."

Indeed, it already had. Arnulf growled suddenly, staring behind them with narrowed gold eyes. No opening existed there, now, for with every step downward the cavern reduced itself, preventing retreat and walling them off from their baggage and steeds. Swiftly and silently, it closed off and vanished behind them. Not crushing or threatening. Just… not there anymore.

"Dwarf magick," guessed Drehn, when the newly-grown rock proved as stern and persistent as debt. "My kin aren't this elaborate."

Frodle nodded, looking worried and pale in his own conjured mage-light.

"Stay together," he warned the companions. "We don't want to wind up strung along the path in our own separate rock-bubbles. This once, friend elf, I suggest that you not scout ahead."

Drehn shot him a lightning-brief smile.

"I am overcome, all at once, with the urge to be sociable. Might even wed the good squire, here, and pass on the blood of my kindred and cavern."

Only joking, most likely, but Britte came near to drawing her sword, anyhow. She'd somehow already got herself wedded to Gawain, and wanted no further husbanding. Certainly not with an exiled drow prince. Not with anyone.

Her expression was beyond price, but the scholar stepped in before Drehn could expand on his jest.

"Lead on, friend elf," he said, pointing down-corridor. "I will bring up the rear with Glud and our horse-lad."

So Drehn shrugged and set off, plunging unguessably deep through a chasm which lay not quite in Midworld or Earth; down a tunnel which continually sealed itself shut in the wake of their march.

XXX

_North Africa, near midday-_

Thunderbird 1 had sustained some light hull strain and landing-gear damage, caused by the force of that rocketing shock wave. Her shield had held up, however, and the 'Bird appeared flyable. Another miracle dealt in a royal flush of such happenings.

Next thing, Scott promised himself, he'd hear that the Core Mission was a total success, and that Tracy Aerospace stock was up fifty percent.

"Make that seventy," the pilot muttered, since (as it seemed) he was dreaming. "…And throw in some beer and a couple of good-looking girls, while you're at it."

Wishes aside, he approached the 'Bird cautiously, watching for possible boarders. The Cell wasn't through, after all, and God alone knew what could pop out at him next, or who might be up in those rocks, aiming a weapon.

It was a long uphill slog with Virgil's floating stretcher in tow. Amid burnt jeeps and torn girders Scott threaded his way, only half-listening to his injured brother's wild rambling. Fires and smoke obscured his vision, but the heads-up display worked, and he could remotely access Thunderbird 1's scanner system. Alan checked in from time to time, as well. Together, these things made all the difference in the world; converting a potential mine field into mere inconvenience.

Never pausing, he sweated, climbed and talked to himself, eager to get back aboard and out of that wretched survival suit. Reassured by the scanners that no enemies lay in wait around Thunderbird 1, Scott didn't stop to consider that he might be bringing one aboard, himself.

XXX

_Lima, Peru, at the Hospital de la Madre de Dios-_

Misdirecting the doctors in a busy Intensive Care Unit was next to impossible, for their sharp wits and heightened alertness were critical to saving lives. In order to sneak within, TinTin would have to have seized the minds of each doctor and nurse in the room, and this she did not wish to do.

It was for this reason that she squeezed herself into a cramped supply closet; near enough to "see" all that transpired in ICU, far enough not to cause harm. From this position, surrounded by parcels and sharp-smelling bottles, the girl could unfold her thoughts and reach outward, letting her mind pass the borders of bone, flesh and nerves. Letting it contact the half-conscious torch that had roused her from sleep.

Touching his mind, placing herself in his thoughts, was easily done. Only, what she brushed was not Gordon. Not quite.

XXX

_Tracy Island, in the frantically busy office-_

No help for it, and no time like the present. The moment had come to tell mom what was happening in Peru. ('Cause, y'know… at least now he could give her some pretty good news.)

So Alan took a short break from dealing with Spectrum and the Core Mission launch team to turn round and say,

"Hey, mom… there's, um… been some problems in Lima. Gordon had to crash land, but…"

Lucy whirled away from Premier Kwame's transmitted image to stare hard at her fidgeting son.

"He's crashed?" she repeated, cutting off broadcast. There was a muscle twitching in her right cheek. Never a good sign.

"It's okay, mom!" Alan assured her, before his mother could explode in a cloud of shrapnel-sharp questions. "Gordon and TinTin made it. They're alive, at the best hospital in Lima. Seriously, stars go there to get face-lifts and junk. These people know what they're doing."

"I'm going to Peru," she announced fiercely, "just as soon as I can pack my bags and summon a company pilot. I don't want my son waking up alone and in pain, or TinTin, either. You're in charge until John gets back from his restroom break, Alan. Tell your father what's happened and see that Ricky gets back to bed. Love you."

Then, after hastily kissing his cheek, Lucinda Tracy darted from the room, calling aloud for Kyrano. Behind her, she left Alan alone with his sleeping young brother and butt-loads of simmering trouble.

XXX

_Below ground, but scrambling upward-_

While somewhere another group climbed its way downward, a weirdly invigorated Captain Metcalfe led his companions to safety. The bore hole was terribly hot; throbbing with radiation and solvents. Only, none of this troubled Paul Metcalfe.

Nearly naked, but glowing with health, he seemed to absorb the dangerous ambient energy, breathing in toxins like perfumed air. The two females were less well off, but at least they were conscious; alert and reacting.

Some hours after the first one, they came upon another wrecked tractor. It lay in their path, crumpled and tossed like the toy of a giant. And again, there were no survivors. Pausing in their trek, Paul and Cindy did what little they could for their dead would-be rescuers, while Myrna snapped,

"Why are we even alive? These people were much further from the blast than we were. _They_ didn't make it! Why us?"

Paul shrugged helplessly, looking away. He had no theories to offer besides a sense of special protection, and the memory of all that sheltering, life-giving energy. But Cindy said,

"When the universe hands me a gift, I say: _thank you,_ and wait until later to look at the price tag. Maybe we got caught in a bubble, or something, like when two fires meet and put each other out, or when waves self destruct."

Myrna coughed some of the soot and fumes out of her throat. When the physicist could speak again she said, hugging herself.

"Maybe you're right, Cindy. I'd rather believe _that_ than think someone up there is picking and choosing who lives and who dies. It wouldn't be _fair_."

She looked like a scared little child just then. To cheer her, Paul ventured,

"We're nearly halfway to the surface, ladies. Just a little bit farther to go, and I'll bet we meet International Rescue on their way down."

Cindy's smoke-reddened eyes widened.

"Never thought of that," she mused, peering up-tunnel. "You think we should make some noise to hurry them up? Pound on the walls, or something?"

"I think we should keep walking," Paul told her, urging both weary crewmates on forward. "My dad used to say that luck favors the man with the shovel in his hand, not the one home in bed. Translated from the Iowan, that means: move it!"

As it happened, though, they weren't met by International Rescue (officially) but by one of their own: Doctor Hackenbacker, along with two staff medics, at the wheel of a lunar-style tractor.

They could not believe their ears or eyes, at first, when dust-spangled headlights and slow, rasping motor noise filled up their tunnel. Many hours of leaping and scrambling through a drill-scoured hole made it tough to assess new developments.

Brains had no such difficulty. Once Metcalfe, Taylor and Myrna (his beloved, beautiful Myrna) showed up in the scanners and headlights, he sounded a blast on the horn and then shot from his seat, leaving a cursing medic to seize the wheel and brakes.

Too emotional to work the hatch first time, Brains had to take several deep, calming breaths before he could make his way out of the vehicle. Almost fell off, sliding down its steel ladder, but none of that mattered. Nothing mattered but Myrna, just then; alive and whole and soon to be safe.

They'd kiss again at their wedding, but to Dwight Bremmerman… alias Dr. Hackenbacker… this was the one he'd remember forever. The kiss and embrace which sealed the deal. Made Paul think longingly of Simone, and Cindy of… an empty apartment, one over-watered fern, and the headline-grabbing story of the decade. Seriously, though, what more could a newshound desire?


	77. 77: Redemption

Just a bit more!

**77: Redemption**

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Okay… So, mom was leaving, dad in transit, Scott and Virgil wrapping up a mission, Gordon wounded (again) and John missing. With… oh, yeah… Brains off rescuing the Drill-Mission crew, meaning that there was literally no one around to ask for advice. Believe it or not, just at that moment, Alan was it: Island Base.

Seriously, though, how did John and dad _do_ it? Everybody had a problem, and they all wanted help, right the heck _now._ Unsuspected Cell operatives were going off all over the world like kernels in a bag of microwaved popcorn, causing damage, delays and loss of life; straining local resources to the utmost. Washington, London, Tokyo and the Spectrum Sky Base had all been hit hard, while the primary Core Mission managed to score a complete miss, coming nowhere near their magma plume target.

If Alan had been a Hindu god, with fourteen arms and three scary faces, he couldn't have shuffled all that. On the other hand, there was Ricky; fast asleep on the couch with his thumb in his mouth and his terry-clothed butt in the air, cradling Mister Bear. Some guys had all the luck.

Well… computers were supposed to make things quicker and easier, right? So, Alan put that clamoring, needy mob on hold and then cleared memory, gearing up to produce an emergency-sorting automatic answering service. Call it situational triage. Advance to a human operator if, and only if: your hair is on fire, the building's collapsed, or one-eyed space aliens with death-rays are coming through the windows. If zombies are involved, go right to the head of the phone queue. Awesome, huh?

Alan had already patched in his masterpiece, and was tweaking the lines of code on a handsome, square-jawed IR avatar, when something on the desktop caught his eye: an unnamed zip file, where none ought to be. Huge, too, containing a couple of libraries' worth of data.

Yeah, so… Alan wasn't born yesterday, or even the day before that. He didn't just open things without checking, first. While his Max Headroom-style avatar smoothed down Colonel White, Premier Kwame, the President, King Denys and about ten-thousand private citizens, Alan ran that unknown file through one of John's weapons-grade virus scans.

"Huh!" he grunted, a few seconds later, leaning close to the screen. "_That's_ weird."

The file contained no malware, but was definitely exotic. It didn't belong here, and was considered a possible threat. Something about wave functions, y'know? (Right. Alan, either.) On top of all that, the file was a back-up, meaning that the real thing had most likely been up and running till someone deleted it, reason unknown.

"Umm…" Alan sat back in his rolling computer chair, perplexed and out of sorts. For real, why delete a massive file, but leave its tightly sealed back-up practically out in the open? Ideas weren't exactly hopping like fleas, needless to say, and he had loads of other stuff to worry about. Should have just deleted the file, maybe, but Alan could never resist a mystery, and besides, he got distracted.

Ricky twitched all at once, made snuffling noises and nearly rolled right off the couch. Alan was across the room to catch him in less than a heartbeat, saving his little brother a serious bump on the head. He, on the other hand, did fall; crashing _bang_ on his rump and then rolling a little. Ricky clutched him, started to cry, and then thought better of it.

"Timpin's inna closet, Alan," he sniffled, hugging the bear and his brother.

Alan considered, briefly. Then he shook his blond head.

"Nah… I don't think she's gay… but you sure have the weirdest dreams, buddy. What the heck are they showing on Sesame Street, these days?"

It was awkward, getting up without letting go of his brother and Mister Bear, but Alan managed the feat. And, _dang,_ was he tired! Slogging back to the beeping and flashing workstation, Al gave vent to a jaw-cracking yawn and said,

"What d'you think, little guy? Open the big, bad mystery file, or delete it?"

Ricky's small face scrunched up.

"Wha's a mis-try file?" asked the warm, sleep-scented toddler.

"Um… it's kind of like a box inside the computer, only it's got all sorts of unlisted stuff packed up in there," explained Alan, sitting down at the desk once again.

"Like… Like a Christmas present? Like a present for _me_, Alan? I gots presents on my birfday, too! Lots of presents! I got a truck, an' a airplane, an' crayons an' a playhouse an' space suits for Mister Bear, an'…"

Alan let him run on, stifling another vast yawn. Spectrum signaled, evidently not satisfied with the new avatar-receptionist. Scott, too, but only to say that he and Virgil were back in their 'Bird and headed on home.

"Yeah, kinda like a present, kiddo. What d'you think, open it up, or wait for later?"

_"OPEN!"_ crowed Ricky, bouncing up and down like one of those wind-up, cymbal-clanging monkey dolls. "Open my present! Mister Bear says open it!"

So Alan clicked on the file's drab little dun icon, first hitting the "translate" command, to be sure it would work with their system. He'd been maybe expecting a computerized "get out of jail free" card; all questions answered, all problems solved. (Or at least some aliens.)

Instead, the computer made bunches of weird, high-pitched noises, emitting a swarm of bright motes and flashes of oddly compressed holographic gibberish. No words, numbers, hex-code or viewable images… _nothing._

Then John walked into the room, back from the world's longest restroom break. Torn between relief and deep annoyance, Alan bolted to his feet. The chair skittered backward, seat whirling, but nobody noticed.

"Dude! Did you fall in, or something? We were about to send out a search party!" Then, when John didn't answer immediately, "Sit down, bro. You look pretty beat. Want some coffee?"

"No," said the astronaut, numbly shaking his head. "I just… I'm… Mom gave me a kiss. Said you needed help in here. What's, um… what's going on?"

Ricky switched brothers at once (traitor); happily shouting John's name and then reaching out to be scooped up into a new set of arms. John accepted the boy without comment, patting his back rather absently while Alan began running down the list of emergent and cresting situations. (Alan rang for coffee, too. Despite John's protests, it was clear that the astronaut needed some kind of chemical jump-start, _fast_.) At one point, his older brother looked right at Al and said,

"She's not here, anymore."

…But who the heck knew what _that_ meant, huh?

XXX

_North Africa-_

Scott remotely triggered Thunderbird 1's cargo hatch and loading ramp, then ferried his wounded brother within.

"It's okay, Virge. Everything's fine, now. We'll be home and in bed before you know it."

There was no sweeter music for Scott than the noise of that hatch whirring shut on chaos and smoke, followed by the ratcheting sounds of Thunderbird 1 retracting her ramp. A thousand tiny beeps, clicks and buzzes were subconsciously perfect, as well. Taken together, they meant safety and shelter.

Exhaustion was beginning to hinder his thinking, meaning that hot coffee and alertness tabs were in order. But first, Scott stowed his delirious brother (who looked even worse in the equipment hold's harsh lighting). A swift push and button-press locked one end of the cart into its recharge slot, securing stretcher and occupant, both.

Virgil had begun thrashing around, again. Whatever pain meds they'd dosed him with in triage must've worn off…

"Just a little bit longer, Virge. Hang in there. We're almost home."

Scott didn't pat him, because there wasn't much uninjured surface area available, but he did try to smile and make eye-contact.

"I'm heading up to the cockpit, now, Virge. Holler if you need anything."

And with that, he went forward, disjointedly humming the Air Force Hymn. Only, what Scott didn't know was that his brother was losing a terrible fight for control and sanity. That the Hood's poison had spread to the point that Virgil, weakened by exhaustion and injury, could no longer contain it.

As Scott ambled forward, Virgil struggled to speak, meaning to warn him… but could not. Instead, ignoring the pain of broken limbs and bound gashes, Virgil got an arm around and pressed the cart's strap-release button.

_Cause severe damage and then commit suicide_. These were the commands Virgil no longer had strength to fight off. The green nylon cargo straps clicked loose and then retracted, freeing the injured young man, now a weapon honed and aimed by the Cell.

XXX

_Lima, Peru, in a medical storage closet-_

Confusion, panic and wretchedness, TinTin sensed very strongly. A feeling of terrible dislocation and wrongness. Drowning and sinking through blood-tainted water. Of drifting, abandoned, through space.

Here was Gordon's mind and yet not, for the girl was unable to pass through a quite substantial shield to speak with him. All she could do was psionically _touch_, and this just alarmed the visitor further.

Bon. She would have to withdraw. Necessary, because their patient's evident agitation was causing the ICU medical staff to reach for their needles and sleep-masks. Yet she poured comfort, warmth and love into her quick final contact, for if this was not Gordon, then at least he must know where the other… _her_ other… had gone.

Answers came, eventually. But she and the doctors would learn a hard lesson in the hours to come. First, that 'Gordon' healed with amazing rapidity. Second, that he was also monstrously strong.

XXX

_Midworld, or somewhat nearby and beneath it-_

A second gate there was, indeed. After many grim hours of marching, they came to what looked like the edge of a cold, darksome lake. Its shore was formed all of cobbles and storm-wrack, mixed with bits drifted down from the shipwrecks and drownings, above.

Hissing cold water gave the stones, gold and timbers a corpse's caress, while bare reeds rattled and sighed without wind. A high dome of stone arched overhead, peppered with crystals and fiberous roots. Frodle expanded his mage-light, then, warning all to keep clear of the dead-smelling water. Two things his mage-light revealed. Three, the glow from his staff brought out of darkness.

There was an island of rock and bone about a furlong away across the black water. Moored to its shore, they glimpsed a small, shining boat. Also, nearer to, and half-submerged in the lake, lay the motionless form of a man.


	78. 78: SideSwipe

Heh! Couldn't resist... And by the way, Nadolig Llawen, all!

**78: Side-Swipe**

_Thunderbird 1, leaving Africa-_

Much had been accomplished, and what he _hadn't _got done, the locals could manage for themselves, Scott assured himself. _His_ contribution was a rescued decoy drill team; that, and his salvaged brother.

Like a man switched to autopilot, Scott Tracy went forward, getting a cup of scalding-hot coffee from the beverage locker on the way up. A couple of alertness tabs, too; fumbled one-handed from their child-proof bottle (like there was ever going to be a kid up here, messing around with the pharmaceuticals).

The pills rode a wave of bitter black coffee down Scott's parched throat to his gut, burning all the way down. Woke him up in a hurry, too; bringing the cockpit and instrument panel out of that weariness-fog and back into focus.

Right. It would have been nice to take off his dirty survival suit, but Scott was eager to leave the Rift Valley and get Virgil home. So he went to the pilot's seat and strapped himself in, going through his pre-flight checklist and engine run-up like a man who could do it all backward and blindfolded. Called in to the island, as well, letting Alan (…or some kind of facsimile) know that Thunderbird 1 was on the way and in need of Shadowbot coverage.

A pilot's job… his bread and breath and reason for living… is flight. Tired or not, Scott couldn't help smiling at the sound of Thunderbird 1 shaking herself back to life; engines first growling, then roaring, control surfaces whining as they altered their shapes for vertical takeoff.

His view screen switched from visible light to scanner-wave imagery, helping him see past all the vapors and smoke. Better yet, local authorities were relatively swift with the takeoff clearance, meaning that Scott could get the hell out of Dodge and head for base less than fifteen minutes after boarding his plane.

He had food on his mind, and sleep. Had the shields at their highest setting, just in case some Cell-addled weirdo took one final potshot, hiding amid the area's geysers and deep-shadowed, brush covered scarps.

But Thunderbird 1 took off without incident, slipping free of smoke and steam like an arrow shot out of Hades. There was a bit of instability at ten-thousand feet, on the change-up to straight, level flight, but nothing that John's remote tinkering wouldn't be able to fix.

His seat was quite comfortable, and the rockets had fuel enough to get him home with a little to spare. Honestly, as he banked his sleek silver bird over the sparkling Indian Ocean, Scott figured that his worst problem this flight would be staying awake.

Then a movement caught the side of his eye; not smooth and graceful but lurching. Pained. Startled, he turned in his seat, as much as the straps would allow. Saw Virgil, barely able to stand, with a flare gun and crowbar. _Tired, run-down and thinking slowly_… only explanation Scott could come up with for failing to leap up and grapple his injured brother.

The crowbar rose, gripped in a shaking, bruised hand. Scott called to him, but Virgil's face was blank and his eyes like those of a mannequin: flat and dead. The stroke missed, because Scott was able to get his seat straps mostly undone and twist a little aside. Because Virgil was wounded, wrapped in splints and bandages.

Instead of splitting the pilot's skull, the metal bar whistled down onto Thunderbird 1's instrument panel, cracking the plastic and mashing a bright red _'emergency fuel release'_ switch. Alarms tore through the cockpit like claws shredding gauze. Scott, half out of his seat and shouting aloud, could have lunged over and hit the _'action abort'_ button, but Virgil had raised that flare gun and pressed it hard to his own bloodied temple. Not a deadly weapon under normal circumstances, but in such close quarters, more than enough to turn Virgil's head into an expanding pink cloud and blast a hole through the cockpit, besides.

Scott didn't think; he just acted. With alarms shrieking like furies and then the _WHUMP-hisssss_ of the fuel dump… the sparking instrument panel and tilting horizon… all Scott could see was his brother: Virgil, one shaking trigger-pull from death.

He leapt across the short, tilting space between them, seizing Virgil's gun-hand like he would crush it. Like he had any hope at all of stopping that shot.


	79. 79: Rough Landing

Hey, there! Sorry for the long delay between 78 and 79. Visits, shopping, Mass and parties, etc. It's a lovely time of year. =)

**79: Rough Landing**

_Tracy Island, at the office, near dawn-_

Put simply, he'd been dumped out of cold, blank, not-being-there. All at once and without explanation, like a multiple-personality patient who "wakes" to find himself in a crowded lobby, clutching great wads of cash and wearing somebody else's sharp clothes.

One minute, nothing. The next, he was standing in the main upstairs hallway, blinking uncertainly. Alone, until his mother came bustling out of a nearby doorway; looking for him, as it turned out.

"_There_ you are, Sweetie!" she exclaimed, with a mix of expressions on her face that John wasn't swift enough to interpret. Not happy, exactly. Or… not _just_ happy. "I've been searching all over!"

Darting forward, Lucy took both his cold hands in her own smaller ones, and then rose upon tip-toe to kiss his unshaven right cheek. Females liked obvious signs of affection, so John bent a bit lower, letting her pop her lips noisily on the side of his face.

"Alan needs help in the office, John. There's a lot going on right now, but your father's on his way home, and I have to go to your brother and TinTin, in Lima."

Right. Okay… Certain things in his head were having trouble re-setting themselves. (Emotions… recent events…) But: _go to the office, help Alan_, he could probably manage.

So, up to the office John went, arriving in time to get the third-degree from Alan, and have Ricky jump into his arms. (Still in the same universe, then. Same _where_ and _when,_ to judge by the people around him.)

Unfortunately, Alan tended to ramble at the best of times. Now it was worse, for with so many pasts torn away, the astronaut couldn't quite grasp his brother's meandering point. Something about Cell-zombies, Gordon's being found, and Scott leaving Africa.

_Damn it, __concentrate__,_ he thought to himself. _Focus up, and work the problem._

Five was gone. He could sense her absence like a hacked-off, shorn away limb. Figured. Instead of deleting them both, she'd backed him up… made a zip file or something… and then quietly done herself in. Sneaky, unfair… and exactly what _he_ would have done, given the chance to save his creation at cost to himself. Didn't make the loss feel any better, though.

Might have said something to Alan about it, but then coffee and pastries arrived, borne into the room by a worried Kyrano. (…And his concern was understandable, given the fact that TinTin was out there in Lima, as well.) They excused him quickly, not asking the thin-stretched old servant to stay and pour out for them. John did, instead, his unsteady grip on two silver pots causing only a little coffee and part of Ricky's hot cocoa to spill. No matter, there was more than enough to go round.

The heat and sugary bitterness did nothing to thaw John's interior chill, but it _did_ give him something to focus on. (Especially when Ricky kept trying to make Mister Bear take a sip from his coffee mug. Yeah. Soggy, caffeine-drenched family heirlooms. Just what he needed.)

Sunrise was coming; rapid and brilliant, in the way of most tropical dawns. The alarms came faster, crushing their moment of brief, fragile calm. From the sound of things, it was more than a one-man situation. So, John set down the cup, bear and brother, meaning to rise and help out.

He was halfway to the desk when Thunderbird 1's comm icon began beeping and flashing like a car-park full of molested Ferraris.

…and "trouble" didn't begin to describe it.

XXX

_Thunderbird 1, high over the turbulent Indian Ocean-_

The aircraft or his brother. Just hours before, Scott had been forced to make a similar decision. He couldn't do it again. Not and make the same choice.

He lunged, shouting some sort of senseless threat or appeal. The horizon and deck were tilting. Alarms raged and shrieked, but Scott didn't listen. He collided with Virgil; the force of that impact sending both young men reeling and staggering like a couple of drunken square-dancers.

He seized hold of his brother's hand, twisting the weapon savagely backwards, bending Virgil's wrist and trigger finger at a crazy, nerve-burning angle. A no-grip-strength angle. The flare-gun's muzzle wavered away from Virgil's head, but only just. There were two sudden, wet, popping noises. Then the flare gun went off, filling Thunderbird 1's cockpit with bright, screaming noise, dense smoke and a horrible, burning magnesium glare.

Meant to shoot high in the sky and be seen for miles, the glowing, plasma-like fireball struck an overhead instrument panel and reduced it to cinders. The cabin fire-control system activated at once, spraying both men and that glowing discharge… the smoldering overhead panels… with chemical foam.

He couldn't breathe, or see. All the world was turned to chaotic, howling noise, and if there was a hell for pilots, this was it. Still gripping his brother, he crashed to the deck. Virgil's limp body broke his fall, but the fall further broke Virgil, doing God knows what damage.

Thunderbird 1 nosed over; rockets sputtering as they began to run short of their volatile life's blood. Virgil lay crumpled beneath Scott, unmoving, but still alive. He knew this, because his groping fingers had detected a pulse in his brother's thick, bloodied neck.

Orange smoke and death's-head choir sounds filled the cockpit, which was tilted now at a wavering thirty-degree angle. Scott couldn't see, but his mental map of the cabin and the memorized location of those howling alarm speakers were enough to help the pilot establish his bearings, again.

He crawl-slip-scrambled down slope, toward where his seat and the instrument panel ought to be. Bumped his head hard on the chair; eyes swollen shut, skull ringing. Got into the seat. No straps… no time. Just felt for the steering levers and grabbed hold, fighting to yank the Bird out of her dive.

Comm was fried, or else he just couldn't hear it. Hard to tell, with all the noise. _Helmet,_ he thought, suddenly. His survival suit's helmet had to be somewhere nearby, because he'd carried it up from the hold with him.

Scott let go of the stick with one hand, leaning down to grope frantically around with his other until he found the survival suit's helmet on the deck by his yaw-control pedals. Got it on, locked and operational half a panic-struck heartbeat later.

_"…hear me, Scott? Thunderbird 1, from Island Base. We show you experiencing catastrophic engine and systems malfunction. If you can hear me, please respond."_

John, sounding about as excited as a two-dollar lottery winner. Thank God for that helmet comm!

"Base…" he croaked hoarsely, "Base, from Thunderbird 1. I hear you, little brother. Zero visibility. Repeat, I can't see. What's the plan?"

John wasted no time at all with questions or signs of relief. Instead,

_"Switch off manual control. I'll take over from here. You've got less than a minute of fuel and altitude left, but there's a carrier group in the Indian Ocean, and I can put you down on the deck of the Reagan without too much trouble."_

Inside his helmet, Scott nodded. Then he switched her over to remote flight control, saying,

"FAB. Better warn them first, though."

_"Already handled. Captain Stark owes me a favor. Hell, the whole US Navy does, after that business in Guam. Sit tight, Scott. It's going to be close."_

With fume-burnt eyes, Scott couldn't see. Didn't know if John could see _him_, but nodded again, anyhow.

"Understood, and thanks, even if…"

He let that one trail off unfinished, because no pilot really believes in his own end. Not possible. Not him, not now, and not in _this_ aircraft. Never happen.

Right. The controls began clicking and buzzing again as somebody else took the reins. Alarms cut off, fading away to five or six stubbornly sputtering beeps. He'd have liked to rise from his seat and check Virgil, then, but Thunderbird 1 was wobbling in her last few seconds of powered flight like a wing-shot duck.

The ocean had to be rushing up at him, along with somewhere a crash-braced aircraft carrier. The rockets coughed, cut off, and then ignited again, briefly. Just enough to switch Thunderbird 1 back to vertical landing mode. He next felt and heard the impellers kick on; felt the wounded 'Bird begin to descend, fast but light. Over a postage-stamp, wave-tilted deck? Or the ocean's swallowing darkness? No way to tell without asking, so Scott just sat there and waited, mentally tracing the steps to first Virgil, then the emergency raft-deployment hatch. Just in case.

He heard the landing skids deploy, whingey as ever. Five seconds… ten… and then _**THUMP**_; loud and jarring as a fifteen-car pileup. Scott, still not strapped in, was hurled halfway out of his seat. Upwards, mostly, and across the hard armrest. But damned if his suit's emergency force shield didn't cut on again, saving him a side full of stoven-in ribs. Scott hardly noticed, too busy waiting with frozen, pent breath.

No explosions… no wave-sloshed sinking sensation. Maybe, just maybe…

"Better, uh… better brush up on those Earth-side landing skills, John." He quipped at his distant brother. "You're getting rusty."

_"Yeah. I'll sign up for remedial flight training right after you explain why you blew up your own cockpit. You won't believe the telemetry I'm getting, over here. What did you do, light a cigar and belch at the same time?"_

Scott rose very shakily, keeping a hand on the back of his seat.

"Something like that. Tell you all about it when I get home, little brother. In the meantime, we're going to need a medic, up here. Virgil's pretty bad off, and delirious, too. He's, uh… he's not himself."

_"Roger that, Thunderbird 1. Open the cargo hatch and lower your boarding ramp. There's an emergency crash-unit waiting outside. I've got the whole thing on proprietary satellite-feed from this end, including a full backscatter image of the carrier's insides. The Navy'll play ball, or else have me post "how to build your own super-nuke aircraft carrier" lessons all over the internet."_

Not the world's nicest guy, John… but highly effective. Smiling a little, Scott followed directions; feeling around for the proper controls before turning to call for his wounded younger brother.

"Virge?" he said, "You still with me, buddy?"


	80. 80: Through Dark and Twisting Ways

Believe it or not, I'm getting there, but weaving all the bits together takes doing. Thanks for reading and reviewing. =)

**80: Through Dark and Twisting Ways**

_Tracy Island, the office, just after dawn-_

The room smelt strongly of tension, cold coffee and half-eaten pastries. It sounded like whispering data-feeds, muted alarms, keystrokes and muttered instructions, most of them somebody else's.

Alan was pretty much, almost a hundred percent glad that John had shown up to take over the Lima and Thunderbird 1 situations. Mostly. Sort of. Sure, it was nice to relax a little, step back and deal with dad and mom's travel plans (not touch-and-go stuff by any means, with the magnetic poles still wandering, feeble and homeless, all over the globe).

See, mom needed a plane and a pilot. Dad could provide his own, but he wanted help planning a route that would let him drop Al Jenkins and Leisha Bonaventure off, too. Major activity. Really important… only, Alan couldn't help wondering whether _he_ mightn't have done what John was doing. For real, how hard could it be to blind a few satellites, hack through a government watch-dog system and twist the US Navy's collective arm? Astro-Boy made it look easy! Alan didn't have loads of time to dwell on it, though. Not with his baby brother around.

"_Alaaaaan…!"_ Ricky whined, drawing the name out as a long and petulant drone. "I's hungry! Alan, is time a… time a get up an' have cereal! Alan, Mister Bear wants a eat! He gotsa go potty, too! _Alaaaaan…!"_

The second blond Tracy turned away from his comm screen, chair complaining in almost the same tone as Ricky.

"I hear ya, Rickster, but we don't want to leave dad stuck out there in New York, with no way to come home, do we?"

Ricky's dark, slightly slanted eyes widened a bit.

"Daddy's coming?"

Immediately, the small boy began squealing, jumping up and down, and laughing aloud.

"Mister Bear, Mister Bear, did you _heard_ that? Daddy's comin' home! Yay, Daddy! Yay-yay-yay, Daddy! He gots me some presents! Alan too, he gots presents for Alan, an' John, an' Scott an' Gow-don an' Mommy an' Timpin an' Birgil!"

Alan winced. He was developing a headache, and (unlike John) could not simply tune out all this kid-sized emotion and havoc.

"Yeah, he sure is. Yay, dad. So, how's about you and Mister Bear go visit the bathroom… don't forget to flush and wash your hands, Little Dude. Paws, too… and then you can make us some breakfast off the pastry tray. Use your imagination."

Ricky laughed; the silly, happy gurgle of a well-beloved child. Still bouncing, he flung himself at Alan and hugged him tight about the knees.

"I'ma make beckfas'! I'ma make eggs an' bacon an' toas'…"

"Uh-huh. Sure thing, Rick. Have a blast. Just, go to the bathroom first, before you pee yourself and I have to clean it all up."

Another hug, a swift, eager nod, and then Ricky left him, pattering away to the office restroom with Mister Bear in tow. (…And a more frequently washed, repaired, re-stuffed and disinfected toy had never existed.)

XXX

_Thunderbird 1, on the launch deck of the USS Ronald Reagan, out on the Indian Ocean-_

Heads-up displays weren't of much use to a blind man, but the helmet's smart system swiftly came up with plan B: ultra-sonic stimulation of the visual cortex. Thinking strategically, Brains had often programmed simulator runs in which one or both pilots were rendered unable to see, leaving John to come up with an answer. The astronaut's solution had worked well enough in dry runs to be set up for real, proving invaluable, now.

Data and visuals which the helmet would have projected onto a virtual screen were instead converted to pulses of sound and aimed at the proper parts of the wearer's brain. The results weren't perfect. What Scott "saw" was a grainy, black-and-white relief map of his surroundings, labeled in flashing red letters.

Better than nothing, though, especially with a team of Navy medics clambering loudly aboard. (Funny, how noises rang sharper when you couldn't see.) Scott awaited them in mid-cockpit, beside Virgil's crumpled and broken form. His younger brother was unconscious, still; breathing just enough to be felt as a faint, warm puff when Scott placed a trembling hand by his nose. Pulse was likewise feeble and rapid. Not a good sign. Not good, at all.

John wasn't talking much. To _him,_ at least. Scott got the impression that his astronaut brother was extremely busy monitoring the situation for signs of recording equipment or coded transmissions. Then there was the problem of how to remotely repair and top-up Thunderbird 1, considering that IR's special blend of powerful Trinitramide rocket fuel wasn't available on the Reagan. (Or anywhere else but Tracy Island, for that matter.)

Important issues, but not Scott's main concern, at the moment. He had a cabin full of uniformed visitors to deal with. Thankfully, nobody tried to take any pictures or tour the interior. The Navy medical corpsmen were quick and professional, used to fast work in a crisis. Their officer's voice was warm and burred. Sounding sort of like corduroy, tobacco and sun-warmed topsoil, even through all his protective breathing gear.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen, and welcome aboard the USS Reagan. I'm Doctor Potter, and we'll be patching you up for transport, now, if that suits the two of you?"

Smoky-white ghost-people on a flickery background moved forward, one of them gaining the bright red label _"Dr. Potter",_ the rest making do with _"Navy Corpsman 1, 2 or 3."_

At a hasty whisper from Scott, his faceplate went dark to protect his identity. Unlike Virgil, he wasn't a hard-to-place figure. Not in business and military circles, anyhow.

"Thank you, Doctor." The pilot responded, extending a hand in the proper direction. Potter wasn't a large man, but his gloved grip was firm and dry. "If you don't mind, I'll be leaving the helmet on for awhile. It's my b… my teammate who needs the most help. I'll be just fine with some eye-wash fluid and a secure place to rest."

Under the circumstances, he didn't want to go totally blind, again. Not yet.

XXX

_Lima, Peru, at the Hospital de la Madre de Dios-_

From her hiding spot in a cramped and lightless supply closet, TinTin eavesdropped on the happenings in ICU. Unfortunately for the perplexed medical team, their wealthy young subject wasn't cooperating. Rather, he'd awakened obstreperous and disoriented; having to be held in place by shouting orderlies, nylon tie-down straps and more sedation than one injured man should have needed.

Peering closer, TinTin sensed a powerful force at work in his body. Startled, she looked on in astonishment as it burnt through the drugs and gunshot wounds like so much curling grey scrap paper. Worse, his nylon straps were beginning to tear. He'd be free, soon. Free, bewildered and angry.

Bon, she would just have to go in and bring order, the girl decided. So TinTin stood up a bit stiffly, pulled her blue hospital robe tighter around her slim figure, and then opened the closet door.

Public address alerts blared through the passageway, summoning security to ICU. From the sound of things, the intensive care staff was losing the battle to contain their violently struggling patient. Someone was going to be hurt, soon, perhaps severely.

As quickly as caution allowed, TinTin made her way to the hospital's Intensive Care Unit. Like a big-eyed stray cat, she skimmed close to the wall, managing to remain unseen till she came to a pair of wildly swinging wood doors. A large male nurse was on his way inside, looking quite grim and intent.

"Monsieur," TinTin called, halting him with only a brief, gentle thought. "I am Delphine Kyrano, who is called TinTin. I am a… a close friend of le jeune Monsieur Tracy. If allowed to go to his side, I may perhaps succeed in calming him. May I enter, please?"

The nurse frowned (muscular fellow, buzz-cut and impressive in his green surgical scrubs; Juan-Pedro Mendoza, by name).

"I must check on that, Senorita. Will you wait a moment?"

TinTin nodded, allowing the nurse to make an inquiry call on his hospital radio-telephone. A brief conversation in Spanish followed, which TinTin deciphered by observing his thoughts. Then,

"Si, Senorita Kyrano. Los doctores… the doctors will allow, but they are concerned for your safety, as Senor Tracy appears not wholly rational at this moment."

The girl smiled at him, fleeting and nervous.

"Lead on, Monsieur. I am not afraid," TinTin lied.

XXX

_In a vast cavern, somewhere between Midworld and Earth-_

Allat converted to one of his flying forms, becoming all at once sort of a dark, rasping crow-dragon. Upward he flapped, banking across the lake's hissing water to a far-away island and tightly moored boat. Quietly, though; quiet as crow wings could carry him.

He landed with a slight thump and rattle upon the shore, careful to keep low and away from those lapping black waves. This strand, too, was rocky; littered with the wreckage and loss of a thousand cold seas. Much there was that Allat could not understand; materials and objects which made no sense to him, for they'd drifted, spinning and trailing pale bubbles, down from the depths of an alien world.

Letting them be, the shape changer twisted his black-feathered head for a quick look around. The island proved a strange and unsettling place, where trees and rocks shifted position whenever one's back turned. Inland, at the crest of a hill, there rose a tall post with something tied to it, fluttering like an oddly-shaped banner. Not by wind was it moving, either. In three rapid beats of a bird's heart, Allat had seen all he needed to. Now he made ready to act.

It was the silver-planked boat which commanded the shape-changer's attention. That… and the figure draped halfway inside. Moored to the bleached snags of an uprooted tree, the boat contained the inert, unarmoured form of a muscular, red-haired young man. His friend and employer, Sir Gawain.

The black-feathered dragon cocked its raven's head this way and that, as birds will do when faced with a corpse. Opening wide his toothed beak, Allat cawed softly, but the body did not stir, beyond what wave action might account for.

With only the far-off gleam of Frodle's mage-light (and reflected barbs from the crystals above) Allat couldn't see very well. So he nudged at the body's near shoulder, cawing once more. Nothing. No response… yet, the flesh wasn't cold, nor the limbs stiff. Here was more mystery than Allat was equipped to deal with. He was neither scholar nor paladin, after all, but a shape-changer; a wandering spirit who'd been bound to this realm by a sorceress of vile temperament, who'd later lost him to Gawain.

Not knowing what else to do, Allat snapped through the boat's mooring rope with a single, scissors-like nip of his beak. Then, taking the rope's end in one taloned foot, he surged back into the air.

Roots waved overhead like the beards of a legion of knowing old men. Below him, dark waters glinted and slurped. The boat skittered along in his wake, somewhat hindering Allat's flight. He could not rise as far above the lake as he would have liked to. Not while towing a boat and its mostly-dead passenger. Not with that fluttering _thing_ on the hill back there, watching him.

Images whispered and flowed in the dank cavern air; barely-glimpsed faces, reaching hands, and the like… But Allat ignored them, too busy staying aloft to give heed to mere spirits. His flight back was a jerky, wavering, unlovely thing. But despite a few near-dunkings he finally arrived at the opposite shore, dropping the rope so that Voreig and Glud could haul in the boat. Allat then circled around to land behind them, winded and panting.

All the rest of the party gathered round the boat and its motionless occupant. They were silent, at first. Then Drehn began a complex series of spells, while Frodle summoned his tome. Chester bucked and brayed hysterically, as fearful of death as most horses. Beside him, Arnulf grunted and howled, and his voice was not quite wolf or man, but somewhere between.

Britte was icy-still, at the start. Then, utterly practical, she attempted to lift her lord's body out of that half-grounded boat. Voreig stooped to help her, but Glud only threw back his shaggy head, giving vent to a roar which exposed his long fangs and boomed far across the dark water.

At some point, as Britte spread her cloak upon the ground and Voreig laid the body gently onto it, Glud's roaring turned into a chant. Words rose, weaving round and about all the spells and yelps and donkey-like braying.

"Here is our leader... betrayed and thrown down. A brave man in the dust. He was brave, I say, and none may doubt it! He made the shield-men and demons put on red, shattered hats, clove their skulls to the shoulder with sword's edge. The battle-keen warrior, feeder of wolves, wet their muzzles and poured forth the crimson raven's-mead! The hater of gold broke rings and cast them generously, rewarding his men with great wealth and with ale. The releaser of shining-steel rain led warriors in conflict and brought them to gods-given victory! May Midworld... bride of Heaven... first sink to the depths before the renown of Sir Gawain is lost!"

Then, with open emotion, the half-orc crouched low by his friend's body and wept, rocking slowly back and forth. Drehn was not so disposed toward sympathy, though.

"Remember all those grand compliments," he told the bereaved orc, "because you may actually need them, sometime."

And then, when the half-orc rose in fury, hand knotted and clamped like stone on his spear-shaft,

"He isn't dead, Glud. At least, not fully. More correct to say, _missing._ Are you in agreement, Scholar?"

The halfling looked up from his floating tome. Pausing amid a windstorm of rapid page-turning, Frodle said,

"Indeed. What we have here is no more or less than a suspended, abandoned body. The mind and soul are flown. Whither, I cannot yet say."

"We could get him back, then?" demanded Allat, who'd converted by now to more humanoid form. He patted Chester and Arnulf in passing, attempting to soothe the poor, worried creatures.

"Possibly… if the Lord of Battle and Flame can be persuaded to cooperate," replied Frodle, scowling a little.

"He'll be persuaded," snapped Drehn. "My name, soul and heart's-blood on it."

The halfling's brown eyes grew very wide. He blinked, saying,

"That is a heavy oath, friend elf. Perhaps…"

"Perhaps we'd better move on. My kin record that all ways lead to the island, and that the boat will expand to hold as many as battle or mischance rain down upon it. There will be another watcher at the island's crest, whose fee is not blood, but answers. We need to bring Gawain along, and keep moving."

No one gainsaid the drow. Instead, Glud and Voreig draped Gawain's body across the still-weeping centaur's broad back. Then all took firm hold of their weapons and courage. Steeling themselves for a very strange ride, they clambered onto the partly-beached boat.

Oddly enough, it _did_ expand; growing as they stepped aboard, from the size of a dinghy to that of a sleek pirate longboat. Large enough for Chester, even.

At a chanted spell from the halfling, their boat slid off of the strand and onto the lake. Then, without wind or oar, it began to cleave water. Waves hissed along the slim hull as back-blown droplets pitted their dark, heaving wake. She moved fast and direct as a ship in full sail; creaking and knocking, dipping and swaying as though wildly and splendidly drunk. Perhaps live passengers were a nice change of pace. On other waters, in different circumstances, the trip might have been enjoyable. But not here, and not with such cargo.

Traveling at great speed, they soon saw the island rise up before them, too quickly by half. Clad in blasted dead trees it was, like a mountainside ravaged by flame. This much, they could see from the water. The rest revealed itself afterward. After silvery wood ground hard upon pebbly shore, and the boat's motion came to a juddering halt. After retreat was once more impossible.

Glud had been standing by Chester, keeping one protective hand upon Gawain's limply draped body, bracing himself on the centaur's bay flank with the other. Now, before anyone could move to stop him, Glud gathered himself and sprang. He cleared the boat's gunwale with ease, landing ashore with a solid thump and loud bellow. In this way, Glud brought himself to the attention of the watcher, and became the one who must answer.


	81. 81: In Brief

Really short! Edited.

**81: In Brief**

_At home-_

In the midst of turbulent menace, always the anchor was home; Tracy Island. John had the desk that day, but it might just have well been Alan or Scott… Virgil, Gordon or dad. Even their mom and Kyrano had mastered the art of high-stakes juggling, where lives, hopes and property rested on each swift toss and safe catch.

Ricky's breakfast for Alan and John turned out to be torn-up, mashed pastries and jelly, served with a liberal dose of imagination. But at least he brought them no mud pies or shaving cream (ala Gordon, in the long ago once-when).

Later that afternoon, Brains contacted base from the main decoy drilling site, having safely extracted Captain Metcalfe, Ms. Taylor, and his fiancée, Myrna Sanderson. A full-blown scandal erupted soon afterward, because someone let slip to the press the fact that this Yellowstone effort was only a sham.

"Was there ever a real core attempt?" people murmured, "Or has the government bought up spots on the Moon and Mars for themselves, leaving the rest of us to perish along with the Earth?"

No one could pinpoint the source of these rumors, but they persisted, dulling the joy of Brains' rescue, and stirring up genuine trouble.

On the spray-washed deck of the USS Reagan, meanwhile, Thunderbird 1 defended herself from casual imaging with the help of Shadowbot. Wreaked havoc upon the carrier's Aegis-2 shield system, but as she was quite closely warded by cruisers, destroyers, attack subs (and John) there wasn't all that much to worry about.

Virgil was whisked off for immediate sickbay attention, but the doctors' efforts were hampered by a lack of access to critical medical records. Didn't matter. The whole time aboard, he never woke up. Maybe he never would.

In a nearby cabin, Scott sat on a narrow bunk with his head in his hands, fretting and waiting. From time to time, he'd get up and make his way over to the cabin's small sink, where he used the chemicals supplied by Dr. Potter to flush out his stinging, blind eyes. Ships were busy places; throbbing with noise and activity, but all of that bustle just made him nervous and eager for home. He had to get off the boat as quickly as possible, Scott figured, because wearing a helmet full time wasn't a good idea, and because he wanted Virgil brought back to the Island.

In Lima (where the day was not so far advanced) TinTin entered ICU and approached a young man whom her mind and heart did not recognize. Yes, on the outside, he seemed to be Gordon. But inside the man that she loved crouched a desperate stranger; a younger, rawer, more emotional person who did not speak English and sternly rejected the touch of her mind.

His gunshot wounds had just about healed themselves by this time, leaving little behind but a spray of dark bruises like freckles. How he had gotten here, she did not understand, nor what this might mean for her own friend and love, Gordon Tracy. But the girl was determined to find all this out. After all, she'd had tremendous success with Marina Dos Santos. Could not all such disasters be mended?

As the nurses and doctors of Madre de Dios Hospital stood by, ready to intervene on her behalf, TinTin Kyrano drew up a chair and sat down at his bedside. Then, placing a hand on his bound, rigid forearm, the girl began to talk; telling him of life on the island. Of his Olympic medals and the names and nature of his family and friends. Images went with the bathwater-soft flow of words. Subtle at first, then more clearly projected. But she could not mention International Rescue or Thunderbird 4, for civilians were present. All she did was speak calmly and continuously of normal, good, pleasant things. Anyone who'd ever gentled a horse would know the technique.

Communication sprang up in fits and starts, as time passed and her visitor began to relax. She could translate him, then, and he did not shy so much at the brush of her thoughts. But the first words he said to her were: "I need to go back."

Then he spoke to TinTin in halting English, telling of wonders and dangers which seemed to come from a book or a fable. But to him… this Gordon-who-wasn't… all of these monsters and glories and perils were _real_.

…Which brings us to Midworld, where the group of creatures, squire and beasts abandoned their boat, following Glud to the shore. It vanished like an ale-dream when Britte leapt off of it, cutting off hasty retreat.

No matter. There was no safety behind them, either. So they climbed through a forest of bare, clawing trees to the crest of the island; skirting dark stones and ice-covered rivulets.

At the summit was a post, and tied to the post was an unstuffed flesh scarecrow, quickened through necromancy to serve as a watchman. The skinman fluttered like a grisly banner in no wind at all; just an emptied flesh sack that had once been a person.

At the base of the post, a door made of pitted dark steel had been set flush with the hillside. Their route, obviously, though no one was keen.

Well, Glud had been first off the boat. This made him their speaker, rather than Frodle or Drehn. Bracing himself, he approached the tattered and wavering skinman, pounded the butt of his spear on the ground, then gave his name and his lineage, saying,

"I would pass on in safety, with all of my friends."

Sighed the skinman, in a voice like famine and want,

"Answer me, then: _Why exist? Why bother?"_

Glud shifted restlessly, swirling the butt of his spear through the clattering bits of crystal and flint at his feet. He'd expected a rather more basic question. Some sort of old-fashioned riddle, not philosophy. The others were equally taken aback, except for Frodle. By the rules of the game, he wasn't allowed to help out, though. None of them were.

Right. It seemed to the orc that the question had many answers, in which case, all he could give was his own. So, looking around at his brother and friends, Glud replied,

"I exist because I will not give up or let go. Because each living breath is a battle won against Fate. Someday, she will best me, but not now. Not this day. There is my answer, and now I will pass, Skinman."

He gestured threateningly with his spear as he said this, but there was no need. The ragged flesh scarecrow fluttered one arm, causing the steel door before them to grind slowly aside. Beyond lay darkness and silence.

"Enter," said the watcher, in a voice like the scuttle of insects and rats. So they did, one by one; bearing the form of their dead-alive friend

But on Earth, at this time, the robot drilling machine came at last within reach of a monstrously hot and slowly coiling magma plume (big as the state of Nevada, stood up on end). Blindly purposeful, the drill chewed even lower. Its generator roared to life, next; building up a charge of plasma such as had never existed outside of the sun.


	82. 82: Once Upon a NeverWas

Back from the hinterlands, tanned, rested and ready! =) And, believe it or not, there was even time for a snowball fight, at the top of Blood Mountain.

**82: Once Upon a Never-Was**

_At home-_

Somehow or other, Ricky had learnt that his big brother Gordon was hurt, and that this was why mommy was leaving them. He didn't know quite where Lima was, or what had happened to Gordon because no one would tell him. But Ricky wasn't worried. For one thing, he'd already forgotten the bad dream. For another, in his sheltered world, hurt meant "fell down" or "got a big ouchie".

These things mommy and daddy could fix with a kiss, so Ricky understood why mommy had to go. He even loaned her Mister Bear, so that Gordon would have a friend in the hospital.

Lucy packed and left home just a few hours later, kissing the faces of all three sons before she set off. Alan and Ricky saw her down to the Island's airstrip; the small boy continuing to wave long after his mother's plane was no more than a speck in the cobalt tropical sky.

"Bye, Mommy! Bye, Mister Bear!" he shouted, refusing to let Alan back-up the cart and return to the house until mommy was totally gone. Jeff arrived later that evening, tired, sore and bandaged. Didn't even make it to bed, but collapsed on the office couch, cuddling Ricky and starting awake at the sound of each new alert.

XXX

On the USS Reagan, in an officer's berth, Scott was beginning to see again. Not much; just flashes of color and movement. He still needed a doctor, but not so badly as Virgil, who lay deeply unconscious despite all that the carrier's med-staff could do. Scott had spoken to dad about the situation... but he hadn't told his father everything. Some part of him was still protective as hell, willing to cover for Virgil and John, even if it meant that _he_ got in trouble, himself. And this business with the Hood, sabotage and suicide was certainly trouble. When... _if..._ Virgil came around again, he didn't need a huge load of suspicion and blame, on top of everything else.

Then there was Gordon to worry about. Scott had picked up bits and pieces of _that_ situation from Alan, and the news seemed pretty hopeful. He'd been found, and seemed to be improving in huge leaps and bounds. Clearly, reports of his near-death had been greatly exagerated.

Thunderbird 1 was coming along nearly as fast. With remote direction from John, the rocket-plane's repair mechs were doing a dervish-quick job of patching her damaged cockpit. Perfection wasn't necessary. All she had to do is launch from the carrier deck and then fly back to Tracy Island… but for that, she needed fuel. Yeah... two healed, stable brothers and a tank full of go-juice; was that so much to ask?

XXX

In Lima, TinTin Kyrano was heartened to learn that Gordon's mother would soon be arriving. In the meantime, it seemed wisest to TinTin to keep the young patient calm, whilst hiding his strangeness from others. This took some doing, for the visitor's mind did not quite fit Gordon's body, and even his smallest of moves were apt to break things or bruise people.

The doctors believed that Gordon Tracy had gone missing, been severely wounded, and then left in their care by persons unknown. Bon, she would help them to keep on believing that, with a few small adjustments. Were not wealthy and famous people often eccentric? And, as for his miraculous healing, could it not be that they'd simply misjudged the severity of his injuries? The strength could be put down to mere adrenaline, a known source of temporary power.

Nor did TinTin stop there. With brisk commands and the lightest of influence, she soon got the wary young man moved out of ICU and into a private room. Now, all that remained was to learn how he'd been translated here, what had become of Gordon, and how to reverse the situation. (Preferably, without alarming Madame Tracy, or alerting the media.)

Guiding him to a seat by the window, she first let him take a long look outside. Then she began to question the young man. His responses were guarded and halting, at first, as if he didn't quite trust her.

"This place of light and steel is the other world?" he asked at one point, picking listlessly at a very nice hospital meal. "Beyond the 'simulator room'?"

TinTin sighed and rang for a simpler meal. Clearly, monsieur did not cherish pasta primavera. He also did not speak English, forcing the girl to examine his surface thoughts for basic concepts. Otherwise, they could not have conversed.

"Other world?" she repeated, once an orderly had taken her request for roast beef, cheese and non-alcoholic dark beer. As casually as possible, she then asked, "Which world is your home, if not this one?"

He said something; using a term TinTin couldn't translate. When naming the people and places of home, the sounds came forth oddly garbled, forcing him to search for an approximate version.

"Xxxxxxxx," he told her. "_Meadald_. All-ahn of the simulator room denied it, but a link somehow opened between the two realms. Then a powerful being from this place reached across to seize hold of the other."

"Powerful…?" TinTin's eyes widened. She bit her soft lip, preventing a fast, nervous tumble of words. Power, to her, meant only one man.

"My uncle. He is perhaps the one you speak of, with a mind strong and wicked enough to seek victims from worlds far away."

the visitor grew very still, but said nothing at all. It was difficult not to reach forth a hand to touch that familiar red hair; the strong jaw and prominent nose with its funny, entirely loveable bump. To cover her own confusion, TinTin kept talking.

"How did you come to the Hood's attention from so great a distance? And how did he succeed in bringing your mind to the body of Gordon?"

The young man hesitated before answering. Then, rather slowly,

"Of 'Gordon', I know nothing. But for myself… I was sent here to destroy the enemy of my Deity, and to sever the link between worlds. If I have killed or banished your uncle, do you wish vengeance? I can't fight a maiden, but if a champion is found…"

TinTin grimaced. Shaking her head, she said,

"Mais non! My uncle was the nearest thing to pure evil that I have ever known. If you _did_ have a hand in stopping his rampage, then I must thank you, not call the police."

Rather bleakly, he replied,

"What 'pol-ees' may be, I don't know, but you can rest easy regarding vengeance. It's already dealt with, because my task was not properly managed. …Though it might have been worse. Milord might have just killed me."

The new meal arrived as he was speaking (and to this simple feast mon-visiting-sieur reacted with evident pleasure). There was even mustard, which TinTin taught him to squeeze from a torn-open packet. She thought that he might be leery of coffee, but he quite liked the black, bitter stuff, commenting that it put him to mind of a year spent in far-off foreign courts.

"What shall I call you?" TinTin asked him, once the young man had swallowed his last bit of cheese, meat and bread.

"Xxx Xxxxxx," he told her. "Go-wen, of Xxxxxx and Xxxxx, lately made lord of Xxxxxxx… but those things most likely mean nothing, here. Right... You've been terribly kind, and I should like to request your name and titles in return, so as to do proper honour."

For some reason, color and warmth rushed into her face. Gordon's voice and form, with a different person looking out through those bright hazel eyes, made a hash of TinTin's emotions.

"I am Delphine Kyrano, called TinTin by those who are friends and who… who love me."

Gowen bowed from the waist in his window-side chair.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Lady Xxxxxxxx, though the matter of your uncle lies between us. Without misspeaking, it seems to me that you are a sorceress, and if so… perhaps you would know how I might return home?"

"I will try to help you," said TinTin, impulsively touching his hand. The gesture surprised him, and he drew back just a bit. To cover the sudden awkwardness, TinTin seized upon something he'd mentioned earlier.

"What did you mean by 'simulator room"?"

…for there was just such a place on Tracy Island.

XXX

_Midworld-_

Behind the steel door lay a soft, musty tunnel; less like a cavern than somebody's throat. There was no sense turning back at this point, so they filed in a few at a time, Drehn and Frodle leading the way. Loping along beside them, Arnulf growled and sneezed a lot, disliking the organic tunnel's rank air. Further back, Chester seemed not to know where or how to place his hooves. The sensation of walking on pliant, warm ground didn't much please the young centaur, who clung very tightly to Britte's left hand.

How long they tramped, on a path leading down and around in a fearsome great spiral, Britte couldn't have said. Long enough that several meals should have been shared out and eaten, though no one was hungry. Long enough that she sickened of flesh-like walls and rippling floors. Wished herself back on the clean, snowy moors once again with Chester, Blanchard and Gawain.

But there was no escape from this place, when so much depended on reaching the World Tree. So many lives would be lost if they failed! Kel and Laney, Samara, Sir Gawain, the High King and all of his court…

No. Distasteful or not, the squire told herself, this was where she had to remain. At least there was company, some of it pleasant.

Britte walked along beside Chester, keeping an eye upon Gawain's lifeless, unwounded form. Behind them came Voreig and Glud, with Allat ranging about where he would, shifting forms as it suited him.

Down and around they went, following the scholar's pale mage-glow. The tunnel did not branch, nor did it contain any obvious challenges. There was no need, in a place like this one. Even the echoes were stifled, here.

When they came to the end, it was sudden. The bowel-like tunnel opened into a vast arching cavern of glittering stone. She could not see the other side, and barely glimpsed its high ceiling. Dead things and old weapons littered the floor in great profusion, lit by a sputtering surge from Frodle's staff. Around mid-cavern… possibly miles away… hung a long, silver taproot, splotched in great patches of black, killing frost.

Here was the World Tree's root, and there, at its base, lay a sprawling red dragon. Britte caught her breath to cry out in wonder at the sheer, scaly size of the beast. Then she checked herself, for it would never do to seem frightened or simple.

Arnulf lifted his short muzzle and sniffed at the air. His ears flattened back and he whined. Chester, too, appeared nervous, saying,

"Brit, the snake is dead!"

"You're certain?" asked Drehn, cocking a sceptical eyebrow. "I can recite a long list of roast heroes who got that one wrong."

"Dead," insisted the centaur.

An argument might have ensued, had Arnulf not darted out across the cave floor. Like a shadow, he slunk from rusted armour pile to stalagmite to charred bone-heap, never making a sound.

"No!" Britte whisper-called. "Come back!"

But Arnulf would not. With no choice but to follow, Drehn cast a spell of protection; speaking slowly enough so that Frodle could pull out his phial of triple-strength flame-salve. Britte tied cloth about Chester's four hooves, to silence their clicking. Then, as well prepared as possible, they set off to follow the werewolf.

Closer to, there was no denying it. The great beast had died some time ago. Not that it lay rotting, or anything; not in this place of fading old magick. But acres of scales had come away from the carcass, revealing great patches of ridged, dusty flesh. Huge ribs curved high overhead, like a dwarf-hall's polished supports. The smell was that of dried parchment and badly-tanned hides. The cause of death was not clear, though simple old age seemed likely.

Coming closer, they stumbled upon hundreds of blind white cave-lice, long as a man's arm. The creatures scuttled about through holes that they'd chewed in the dragon's flesh. They were making a hive of the carcass, lending it grisly new life. Not the right sort, though, and no use at all to the World Tree.

"Dead as a stone, and full cold at the heart-root," quoted Drehn, when they were yet some ways distant. The long, silver taproot wasn't looking well, either. Peeling and tarnished, its magick had faded almost to nothing. What was to be done? Out on the surface, "heal the World Tree" had sounded like plain common sense. But _here…? _In the face of all _this...?_

Arnulf provided the key. Nose to the ground, he snuffed his way to a pale, cottage-sized egg. Many yards distant it was, having rolled or been kicked from its dead mother. Pleased with his find, Arnulf yipped aloud, dashing back and forth from the egg to his companions. They approached more warily, Allat flashing through every big, armoured form that he knew, Drehn releasing his wyvern-tattoo.

Most dragon's eggs glow, and so did this one. A little. Robbed of its mother's furnace-warm heat, the egg had begun to die. The pearly shell had lost most of its luster, and the shadow within barely moved, even when Glud prodded the egg with his spear-butt. Tapping and muttering, Frodle circled the roc-sized egg.

"It will perish soon," he informed his companions, after circumnavigating the shell. "And the World Tree is surely doomed, for there will be no-one left to warm and protect its root."

"What about building a fire?" suggested the drow, cupping a sudden wisp of the stuff in the palm of his hand. "Would warming our friend, the egg, cause it to hatch?"

"They wake hungry," warned Glud, who'd had previous dealings with dragonets.

Drehn gave his companion a quick '_watch this'_ smile, and then pivoted to hurl a dark lightning blast into the dragon's huge corpse. Bones and tatters lit up with blue light. Smoke gushed forth, followed by swarms of furious cave-lice. Hordes of the insects came boiling out of their corpse-hive, seeking the source of attack.

They streamed in waves from holes in the hide, or dropped down off the ribs, snapping their serrated pincers. Britte might have screamed, that time. Might also have "accidentally" slapped Drehn with the flat of her sword, though she was too busy slashing at loathsome pale insects to answer for either misdeed.

Slaughtering lice was revolting. They crunched and then squished when struck, leaving green slime all over her sword blade. Arnulf tore their soft, eyeless heads off, dashing about the cavern with furious joy. Frodle used his staff and occasional spells, while Drehn fired bolts of magickal lightning, soon piling food enough to satisfy an army of newly-hatched dragonets. Off to one side, Glud and Voreig stomped, swore and clubbed the vile things, which could not be killed with a spear-thrust.

Allat took on a flying form. He and the coppery wyvern attacked from above, darting and swooping like dragonflies. Chester was less active because Gawain's unarmoured body still lay on his back. He couldn't do much besides bat the insects away, stamping with cloth-muffled hooves and lashing his tail. Fortunately, Britte saw the danger and rushed to protect her friends.

_Whirl… duck… stab… leap… snatch things which bit and wriggled off of her back…_

The cave-lice curled up when they died, jetting spurts of smoldering acid. There were storms and swarms of the things, scrabbling at Britte's cloak, hair and boots; rending her clothing and gashing her flesh. She was too blindly horrified to stop fighting, even when exhaustion turned all her muscles to fire. But she knew a de-lousing spell and muttered it over and over the same way somebody else would have prayed.

Finally, the cave-lice swarm dwindled to nothing. Britte waited, panting and sweat-soaked, but no more appeared through the smoke and dragon dust. Drehn was the first to lower his sword. Looking around at the mountain of seared and hacked-apart insects he said,

"Dinner is served."

Had Britte retained any strength, she'd have skewered the drow to serve as main course. But hard looks and gritted teeth would not harm him, or teach any lessons. Allat flopped down from the air, drained to the last sooty fireball.

"No offense, Big D, but maybe next time you could just pinch a few roasts off the hearth of the Three-Legged Dog. You know, with spells? I hear dragons are partial to boar. So am I, for that matter..."

"I was in a hurry," Drehn excused himself. "And no dragon deserves such a fate."

He had a point. And with a food supply seen to, all that remained was to quicken and hatch a big, cooling egg.

XXX

_Below the Earth's surface-_

The robot drill angled itself just so. Lacking cameras, it could still sense the magnetic field lines twisting and crackling about its target.

The drill had been programmed and built by Spectrum. Working in conjunction with the government of Earth, they'd begun construction in secret using data "lifted" from Hackenbacker's computer and Dr. Sanderson's. The scientists didn't know about this essential, real mission, and neither did Metcalfe or Taylor. For safety and secrecy's sake, most of the world had been kept in the dark.

Now, faced with a fast-rising column of hellish-hot magma, the robot drill generated a burst of concentrated plasma, passing the fiery stuff through a series of magnetic amplifiers before blasting it into the lava plume.

Like a cross between lighting bolt and solar flare, too bright to look at, too hot to contain, the shot jetted forth, incinerating its source in the process. And that was the _other_ reason why this drill had been kept a close secret. There was only one chance and one shot.


	83. 83: Bittersweet

Thanks for reviewing, Bee and Tikatu. I'm back on the usual work schedule, which means only a chapter a week. Edited, for being too wordy.

**83: Bittersweet**

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Jeff was deeply exhausted and mentally worn. Even a master of compartmentalization had to shudder when recalling those medical zombies, with their bed-shriveled limbs and vacant, glazed eyes. Not to mention the trauma of inquest and "protective custody".

Between bouts of restless sleep… admixed with status alerts delivered in John's steady voice… he'd pop awake, thinking of Virgil, Scott, Gordon and Lucy. The one lay in a coma, being cared for by Navy doctors who could not be informed who he was. None of the family could rush to Virgil's side except Scott, who was already there, having been wounded in the same mysterious accident which put Virgil under.

Thinking these things, Jeff fretted, drifted off and then woke once again to pat small Ricky, who lay curled against him, contentedly sleeping. Gordon was another strange case. On a mission to Peru with TinTin, he'd been forced to make an emergency landing at a remote mountain airstrip. He and the girl took shelter in a radio-beacon shack during violent weather, and were later attacked. Their unknown assailants had then kidnapped Gordon, leaving TinTin safely behind.

IR's Peruvian agents had found her soon afterward, along with evidence of struggle and gunfire. At Lady Penelope's behest, they'd whisked TinTin off to the hospital, hoping that the semi-conscious girl might help them find Gordon.

…Except that the young man had turned up unexpectedly a few hours later, literally dumped on the hospital's doorstep. Initially listed in critical condition, he'd been upgraded with every communiqué. Now, according to the report of Lady Penelope, Gordon was merely "fatigued and disoriented", with nary a mark on him.

Strange… as was the fact that he'd apparently speak only to TinTin, gazing with wary confusion at everyone else. Lucy was already on her way... Beautiful, headstrong Lucy.

Jeff shivered a moment, recalling the avalanche which had almost cost him his wife, and _had_ stolen what would have been their sixth child. What if both had been lost? Jeff shook his head in mute, pained denial. That moment, when they'd drawn a half-frozen Lucinda Tracy from her tomb in the snow… And, later, when _he'd_ been the one, very gently, who told her that their unborn baby was gone… That moment had sparked the creation of International Rescue. Of his Thunderbirds. Who could say what life would have been like without Lucy? What decisions he might have made differently?

Jeff was deeply and fervently glad that he'd never had to find out. But thinking these things did spark other, less morbid ideas. All at once, keeping safe hold of Ricky (their adopted substitute for that long-ago baby) Jeff sat up on the couch.

"John!" he called, in a hoarse, urgent whisper. Jeff was red-eyed and unshaven, but still very much in charge.

John turned from the comm screen at once, muting all contacts with a single quick keystroke.

"Sir?" the astronaut responded.

Jeff shifted himself such that he could settle Ricky down on the blanket-draped couch without waking the boy, who murmured and wriggled a bit, but kept right on sleeping. (Like Alan, sprawled out and quite over-spilling a nearby loveseat.)

"Thunderbird 3 has a fair-sized reserve fuel tank. I want you to load her up with Trinitramide mix, then fly out to the Reagan and refuel Thunderbird 1 in midair. If Scott's up to it, he can pilot her on impellers high enough from the deck to prevent any collisions with inbound aircraft. Have him bring Virgil aboard, too. And call up your doctor friend… what's-her-name… _Linda_, that's it. She can have a look at him, here. No offense to the US Navy, but I want everyone safe at home, ASAP. Got it?"

John nodded. Only the slight tremor of his hand as he adjusted his comm-station ear-piece betrayed the astronaut's weariness.

"Yes, sir. You or Alan will have to take over the desk, then… unless Kyrano's willing. There's a lot going on out there, and I've been advising wherever I can."

Looked a lot like his mother, John did; blond, blue-eyed and perfectionist-determined. He also looked tired, but Jeff never doubted that his second born son was up to the task at hand.

"Al and I can cover the desk together," he decided, waving John off. "If one of us starts to droop, the other'll prod him awake. Get the comm-board set up for a change of operator, and then get yourself moving, Son. As your grandma would put it, time's a-wasting."

John acknowledged the order with a quick, slight nod and then returned to his keyboard. A few minutes later, Alan was awake and well-caffeinated, and the various hotspots were ready to accept new management. Jeff had gone to the restroom, meaning to splash water on his stubbly face and chase off the still-lurking shadows.

John explained things to his brother in WSA-style bullet statements, keeping acronyms to a minimum. Alan wasn't a fellow astronaut, after all (with whom John was quite capable of conversing for hours without using one normal word besides: _'the', 'and', 'or', 'that' _and _'shit!')_

For his own part, Alan listened closely, nodding a lot and rubbing both hands through his golden-blond hair. He was the noisiest, most gestural waker that John had even known_._

"Okay… yeah… I got it. You want me and dad to jump in, take over, and talk people down off the ledge, while you take a field trip. Sounds…" (Huge, jaw-cracking yawn) "…amazingly awesome. Good times guaranteed all around."

John was never a slap-happy guy. Even with a serious sleep buzz, though, Al could sense that his brother was sort of… y'know… bleak and depressed.

"Hey," he said, as John took off the ear-piece and turned to leave. "Um… listen, Bro… don't do anything stupid out there, okay?"

John stiffened slightly (which was like saying that a marble statue had gone suddenly cold and remote).

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked the tall, slender blond.

"Just… I dunno… you look like you think it's all over, or something. Like… like you haven't got anything left."

John said nothing at all, but he didn't leave, either, so Alan kept flailing for words.

"See, but there's all of _us_, plus you're an astronaut, and that evil doctor from the pits of Hades likes you a lot. I mean… this is _home,_ right? It's where you belong and who you stick with, right to the finish. That's all I'm saying. Whatever you're going through shouldn't make you give up, is all."

They locked gazes for an instant. Their eyes were not the same color, quite; Al's being sky blue, whilst John's were more nearly violet. The astronaut seemed to consider Alan's words, but whatever went on in his head stayed locked up and hidden.

Maybe he'd have finally admitted to something, only the bathroom door rattled and creaked all at once, spurring John to head for Thunderbird 3's access hatch (a well-disguised elevator). Before leaving, he turned back to Al and said,

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

XXX

_In the far, vivid otherworld, with all of its steel and its lights and machinery-_

He could hear his friends talking, at times; very faintly, and only if the people and objects around him kept still. But even then, not at all clearly or well. Grim tones and cries of alarm were what he could hear, and these troubled him greatly.

He was not in his own land, or even his own body. This one bore an inked sigil upon the left shoulder, something the Lord of Battle and Flame would never allow. Besides being marked in the flesh, this body had also strange memories which… like the clothes of a dead man… Gawain preferred not to touch. They were there, however, and sometimes opened up if he gazed at a thing or a person too long. Very disturbing, especially the last: _drowning_, _sinking downward through clouds of red water._

There was a maiden nearby, gentle in action and speech, if not birth. She'd been very dear to the man whose body he found himself in, and she'd loved him well in return. She spoke of the dead one, this Gordon, as though he might still be returned… and Gawain chose not to correct her. Why bother, when hope meant so much and cost nothing at all but his silence?

In strange, subtle ways she resembled the Lady Anelle, though with dark eyes, not green. Her uncle had been a crafty and powerful sorcerer, however; reputedly the selfsame wight who'd forged the link between Midworld and _here._ Best to tread cautiously, then.

The healers of this cold, busy place were called 'doctors'. Making noise about 'visiting hours', they came in betimes to touch and prod him with bits of metal and glass. No spells, although they did press a number of potions on him, none of them swift or effective.

No matter. Gawain healed as naturally as he breathed, and soon needed naught but a comb. What _did_ concern him was learning the fate of the evil one, and whether or not there was more to be done here.

Said the maiden (who deserved better than grief and abandonment),

"Your… that is, _Gordon's_ mother will arrive with the morning. It is best, Monsieur, that she not be alarmed or upset. Will you permit me to place some knowledge of her in your mind? I swear by the name of Marie and her saints that I will do you no mischief."

He rose from his seat, because she had. The clothing of this place was extremely drafty, being only a short gown within, cloth slippers and a longer blue robe atop all. Only the doctors wore different, but as they appeared to be servants or bondsmen, Gawain paid little heed to their manner of dress. He said, frowning a little,

"This mother… bit tall, for a woman? Of gentle birth? Well gifted in music an' needlework?"

Seeming pleased, the maid nodded her head.

"Oui! Xxxxxxx Xxxxx: a blonde touched softly with grey, though her face as yet is not old. You know her, Monsieur?"

No. Yes… or, somewhat. The memories did, and they loved her near as much as they had the beautiful maiden before him. Stepping into someone else's body was much like taking a castle or fortress; signs of the previous owner were everywhere evident. Quietly, Gawain said,

"She was well known t' your Gordon, and so t' me. But I will be careful of speech, and not give offense.

TinTin moved as though to touch him again, but Gawain drew back; confused in heart and mind. Very much, he needed to go, and not only because this lovely young maiden was troublesome. To judge by that faint buzz of voices he heard, Midworld was fairly well finished.

XXX

_USS Reagan, far out at sea-_

Scott received word from his brother that fuel was at last on its way. All he had to do was cowboy-up and start seeing, again. Right. Easier said than done, though smoky-faint outlines were starting to form.

His eyes were tearing and burning like crazy, and Scott wouldn't have trusted himself to fly a paper airplane at the moment, much less Thunderbird 1. Still, he might have more than one option, the pilot decided.

Sitting hunched in pain on the edge of his temporary berth, Scott pressed the face of his wrist comm.

"John," he voice-dialed, since he couldn't see well enough to pick out his brother's small image.

_'John',_ the wrist comm repeated, before pinging to indicate contact.

_"You rang?"_ said the astronaut, sounding a little preoccupied.

"Yeah. Listen, little brother… what're the odds you could punch in an autopilot flight plan from here to Island Base?"

_"Odds? Spare me. That's kid stuff. I could fly you in spiraling figure eights to the highest spire of Angkor Wat… but I might scratch the paint job setting you down. Those towers are closer together than they look."_

Scott smiled at the small, blurry screen.

"Not really in the mood for exotic foreign travel, John, thanks. But I'd appreciate a quiet assist on the navigational front."

_"Vision still NMC?"_ asked his brother.

"That's affirm, John. 'Non-Mission Capable' about sums it up."

_"Understood. The flight plan'll be punched in and ready to go by the time you're back in the cockpit. I'll include preflight and impeller-lift details as well, if you like."_

Maybe there were ten-thousand people who owed that particular dry, tenor voice their well-being and safety. Once again, Scott was one of them.

"Sounds good, John. I owe you a case of beer and the full story, as soon as we're home."

_"Roger that, and make it Coors. Get your socks and shaving gear packed. I'm about thirty minutes out."_

Thirty-three, to be exact, but only because of a high-flying news chopper. John remotely screwed up its digital cameras so that instead of recording the action below, WNN's news crew ended up broadcasting a wonderful image of downtown New Delhi. Very nice.

The rest was precision detail work. He monitored his helmeted older brother's return to Thunderbird 1, as well as the loading of Virgil (still passed out on a stretcher). Spoke to the XO and Captain Stark next, thanking them for providing shelter and emergency landing space. All of this meant that John owed the Navy a favor now, but he wasn't much worried. Given their brilliant track record, they'd soon use that up and holler for more.

So much for externals. Negotiating life around a big, hollow ache, John was. Around a numbing shock that he couldn't quite come to grips with. Could you ever get one thing back without cost, somewhere else? He just didn't know, and preferred to concentrate on doing his job.

Near sunset, the golden-red ocean threw silvery sparkles. In the midst of that glittering vastness lay a dark, moving island of metal, its wake a long spreading white vee. No trouble to find using instruments, though the compass directions were still playing lunatic hopscotch.

Thunderbird 3 _could _handle an atmosphere. She just didn't want to, using up more of her steering fuel reserves than John liked in the process of holding her course. Meant for a vertical ascent into orbit, she was sloppy to guide on short jaunts through the air, requiring a constant, hard hand on the flight controls.

Right. People find peace in different ways. Scott flew, Alan drove, Gordon hit the water, Virgil painted, TinTin prayed. But John, like his father, brought order. He ticked jobs off his list and made things right again, smoothing the anger and wretchedness storming inside of him. (Well, okay… _that_, and he tormented the nosey camera crew with every shot but the one they wanted.)

Thousands of feet beneath him, Thunderbird 1 at last received carrier launch clearance. She rose from the grey metal deck in perfect silence. This part was tricky. Until she refueled, the 'Bird was draining her nuclear batteries like a kid going after that last bit of milk-shake with a probing and gurgling straw. They'd have to work fast.

Thunderbird 3 dropped to meet her, deploying the refuel-boom like a long, jointed limb. Thinking to be helpful, Reagan shone intensely-bright spot lights, but this only turned Thunderbird 1 into a featureless silhouette, hiding the fuel-intake aperture.

About the size of a man's head, the opening was tough to hit in full daylight and peak physical condition. Now add strong ocean winds, burning spotlights, exhaustion and migraine. No sense advertising a weakness by asking the carrier crew to shut off their lights, though. Anyone at all might hear that request and come up with ideas.

Instead, John blocked out everything else and made himself concentrate, just about melding into those instruments. Followed the checklist, exactly the way Brains and the WSA had trained him to do.

Match speed and position with Thunderbird 1… A twitch here and there… Tap of the pedals… slight twist to the rudder… Alan's voice over the comm all the while, providing short guidance… Then, _**THUNK… CLANG…**_ and the boom mated with its aperture. Next came a rattle of opening valves, followed by the rushing hum of pumped fuel; like ship-to-ship CPR.

"There you go," said John to his brother, once the refueling was well under way. "Next time, don't forget to tighten the damn gas cap."

Scott said something rude in reply, but he was laughing when he did it. As deep night covered the Indian Ocean, they finished refueling, bid farewell to the news crew and Reagan, then flew together, back home.


	84. 84: Hail and Farewell

Sorry so late with this! We were at Disney World, yesterday. =) Thanks, Sam, Bee and Tikatu, for your kind reviews. I'll be reading and reviewing in just a bit, promise! Re-edited, thanks to Tikatu.

**84: Hail and Farewell**

_Tracy Island-_

Everyone rushed to the silo to be present for Scott and Virgil's arrival. Packing themselves into a nearby bunker-room, Jeff, Alan, Ricky and Kyrano waited out the deep, muted rumble and roar of the Bird's return, watching her flight on a big-screen monitor. Got a bit scary, there, just at the end, but she made it to vertical mode and down to her berth without much worse than a dinged tail-fin. Not bad, all things considered.

When sirens quit blaring and the light above the interior blast door switched to bright green, the family burst through. Never had a print-lock ID scan seemed to take so long, or a hatch seemed so slow.

Not just the silo blast doors, but Thunderbird 1's boarding ramp and cargo hatch appeared to be moving in syrup-slow motion… or so it seemed to jittery, impatient Alan. Dad was a little cooler about it, at first, but _dang,_ he could sprint, when at last the way was cleared to reach Virgil and Scott.

Totally not fair, but Alan didn't mean to be left behind, so he thrust little Rick at Kyrano and told the pair to wait outside, just in case… y'know… things were too gory or dangerous in there. Really, he just wanted to help get his brothers out. It wasn't as bad as he'd feared, though. Scott was at the cargo hatch when at last it slid open.

Hangars are noisy places, what with the hull creaking, the engines steaming and hissing, and repair bots clicking about on their multiple spider-feet. Beeps, buzzes and welcoming voices met Scott when he opened the cargo hatch to maneuver Virge's grav-cart-turned-stretcher outside. He was still wearing his survival suit and helmet because blindness wasn't an option, right now.

His family… no, _he_… expected strength and competence in all circumstances. Blindness, wounds and complaints would be seen to later, once the mission was over and everything squared-away safe.

His father pounded Scott's back, voice breaking a little as he congratulated the pilot on a successful mission. Then Jeff Tracy turned to the son who'd only partly returned; dark-haired and battered Virgil. The big young man seemed pale and lifeless, with only the occasional lift and drop of his broad chest betraying the banked, fading coals inside of him.

Alan didn't know what to do, so he mostly shut up and held things for people, while Virgil was brought from Thunderbird 1 to the island's infirmary. It was kind of weird, but dad kept talking to Virgil like he expected the guy to sit up any minute and ask what the fuss was about. Like he thought Virgil just needed new batteries, or something. (Whatever keeps you going, right?)

For distraction's sake, Alan took reaching, squirming Ricky back from Kyrano; letting his father's friend and manservant help with Virgil. And this made all kinds of sense because, hey… at least Rick could talk, and _somebody_ had to help Scott out of his suit and into a bed.

In all the rush, they completely forgot about John, newly arrived in Thunderbird 3. Didn't matter, though, because the exhausted blond astronaut did nothing more exciting upon landing his 'Bird than fall asleep in the pilot's seat. He had time for a fifteen-minute nap before the spaceship's computer began making gentle enquiries. Time enough to dream of the future.

Years had passed and Linda was there, with a ring on her finger. Pregnant, still; or pregnant again, rather. John held their first-born child, a curly-haired, mischievous girl who was already pecking out programs. The boy… and it _would_ be a boy… was due to arrive soon. Kara Jane-Ellen and Ian Dominic. He suddenly recognized that, just as though somebody, somewhere, had shown him a movie.

Right. Waking up to the sounds of a spaceship impatiently drumming its instruments might not have made most men happy, but John Tracy smiled just a bit. What the hell, huh? The seat was comfortable, and these were noises he knew. Truth to tell, maybe a stable, soft bed on flat ground was more strange to him, now, than all this.

Anyhow, he unstrapped with a press to the chest-buckle, stretched in his seat till his joints popped, and then got on with life. First things first, call Dr. Bennett and tell her to pack for a week's stay. Second, call Grandma and ask for _her_ mother's ring; the one that Joe Spirit Horse had slipped onto Rosemary Baker's slim finger. Time it saw service again, John figured.

XXX

_Lima, Peru-_

One could not mentally turn in any direction without shaking loose bits of the past. Worse, someone else's past. With nightfall and the end of those 'visiting hours' had come a settling-down and fewer distractions. With it came also a stronger sense of this realm and its dominant spirit.

Midworld had many gods with distinct powers and responsibilities. Here, as nearly as Gawain could tell, the entire universe was sentient; as near as the whisper of breath, itself, but no more detected by some than a fish feels the water, or men notice air. Downright unsettling, that. He was accustomed to brief, crushing visits, not this all-around, inescapable Presence.

He… She… It…? Whatever it was, the Being had noticed him at once, saw completely through to the slightest nerve-twitch and pulse, yet seemed to be waiting. A few things became clear to Gawain, then. First, that there were defenders here. They stood ready to gather in whatever shape was required. Even that of a 'doctor'. Second, that while the Being had had rather a violent and stormy beginning, it settled with age and expansion, becoming more patient. It would wait to see what he did, before acting.

Everything hung on what befell, next. And so, very quietly, Gawain started to talk. He explained what had happened in Midworld, and how his own failings had brought him here. Perhaps the Being knew all of this from reading his thoughts… but speaking things through seemed to matter.

His own God answered aloud. This one did not. It simply created insight. What Gawain learnt from the contact was this: Midworld was closed to him, now. Nor could he stay here, for his presence in the form of a dead man unbalanced an already shifting reality. The Lord of Battle and Flame had sent him away to survive or not as best he could, but the Place/ Being he'd gone to would not accept the transfer.

Gordon was dead, TinTin destined for heartbreak, and Gawain for complete dissolution. Yet, he'd specialized always in fighting and hope… Surely, there had to be _something…_

He thought of the Lady Anelle, then. Of how she'd placed her own force into Britte, so that a dead girl might live. Well… could such a thing not happen here, granting Gordon a second chance and Gawain a lifetime's stay of execution? Like falling asleep, it might be. Like a long dream after which he'd awake to find Anelle, similarly freed of her self-imposed prison.

A good notion, but only the God of this place could make the final decision. In this realm of science and hurry, with its omnipresent, rarely-detected Spirit, might the stuff of legend and tales be permitted?

XXX

_Midworld, more or less-_

The egg proved impregnable, at first. No heat that spell or fuel could kindle would warm the thing near to hatching. One attempt after another failed, doing no more than cast weird, flicking shadows across the cave floor, causing the World Tree's blackening root to gleam like fire-lit silver.

At wit's (and world's) end they stood, baffled and sweating despite the cavern's dank chill. Drehn had exhausted every spell of dark flame that he knew, while Frodle had paged through the leaves of his tome many times over. Glud's best work with oil-soaked spear shafts and rotting cloth had only garnered them thick, sooty smoke. Nor could Allat's dragon form or Chester's vigorous rubbing enliven the slow-greying egg. Arnulf even lifted a leg and issued a stream upon the big, stubborn thing, but the egg could not be insulted to life anymore than warmed to it. After that, Voreig thought to pile up the cave-lice and set them afire, but all that he got for his trouble were mountains of ash.

"Perhaps a combination," suggested the halfling, when one more effort had failed. "I have here a star-fire charm which only a fool or a suicide would utter indoors. Friend elf, your magicks tend rather to darkness and ice than heat, but I've seen you conjure flame for a campsite, before. Use your best spell and call forth your wyvern, besides. Glud and Voreig…"

He turned to the bleak, scowling orc-brothers.

"…fetch whatever will burn, including bones. Their previous owners will not grudge a part in saving the realm, I think."

Then, facing young Britte,

"Friend squire, you've proven adept with the charms and skills of the barnyard. Know you anything that might quicken an abandoned clutch?"

Britte chewed on her lower lip, considering. Barnyard and croft seemed very far off, at the moment. Her simple skills were laughable in such a place, yet…

"There is the spell to bring strong-shelled eggs and fine chicks," she said, shyly. "I've used it in the henhouse, many times."

Frodle smiled, his brown eyes sparkling warm.

"Do you pronounce it then, Britte; only adjust a word, here and there, so that one giant egg is spoken of, rather than many small ones. The rest of us will try what we can, at your side. Such an assault perhaps even a stone-cold dragon's egg can't ignore."

Gathering fuel proved to be hardest, for Glud and Voreig had been pretty thorough, already. Samara's strong sons were forced to range far to collect the remaining snapped spear shafts and lime-wood shields. For bones, they hacked down a tall, curving rib; reasoning that flame kindled from one drake might well foster another's hatching.

Eventually, all was in readiness. The cavern had fallen noticeably colder and darker, by then, with long brittle crystals of frost beginning to branch like lightning on walls and floor. Above them, the great root had withered and blackened almost to nothing, and there was no more time for advice or crossed fingers.

With white-misted breath and teeth clenched to prevent their chattering, Drehn, Frodle and Britte called out their spells. The coppery wyvern then spurted a bright lance, as did Allat in crow-dragon form. Voreig and Glud knelt down to strike flint upon steel, sending forth hot, eager sparks. Unable to help them, Chester stamped nervously. Beside him, Arnulf threw back his head and bayed like a hound, asking what wolves always will of the Moon.

What happened then came from all of their efforts and more. Light, burning heat, quickened health and showering sparks united with the terrible gods'-rain above. A huge, soundless white fireball erupted inside of their cavern. First outward, then in, targeted by sigil and word on the egg. The conflagaration was terrible, yet the egg did not break, burn or shatter but simply collapsed; imploding into the wet, flailing form of a newly-hatched dragonet.

"Oh…" Britte cried out, but her wonder and compassion didn't last very long. The baby spent just a moment or two slurping fiery yolk from its snout. Then it hissed and lifted its bright, wedge-shaped head. Its eyes were golden as topaz; those sharp-edged scales already hardening. It was also quite hungry.

"Out of the way," snapped Drehn, who'd suddenly recalled something vital. The first meal of a mythical dragon was…

"It's mother's heart. It'll be after her heart and her wisdom. If you stand in the way, you'll be killed."

Britte needed no second warning. She dove to one side and was steadied by Chester and a tall, shaggy man with few clothes. At another time, this might have caused her to scream and fight, but there is proportion in all things, and the sight of a ravening dragonet plunging into its mother's corpse for her leathery heart took immediate precedence.

Small, hissy roars poured from its throat as the hatchling clambered on wing-joints and unsteady hind legs like a bat. Striking scores of dead cave-lice aside, it darted within and seized hold of the heart with its kitten-sharp teeth. The meal took three raging gulps, and passed down its long throat like a trio of rats swallowed whole by a snake. The new dragon paused for a bit after that, giving the mortals time to fall back.

They could feel its hunger, their own bellies cramping in sympathy with that ravenous need. Their own thoughts brushed by the knowledge gained from consuming a bit of its mother. The peace didn't last. All at once, as the mortals scrambled for safety, the dragonet reared up to the height of an oak tree, wings spreading wide like a thunderstorm.

Its trumpeting call sounded halfway of swan and of storm-bells, shaking the walls and the floor. Perhaps its hot gaze fell upon the small beings scurrying here and about, but if so, it ignored them.

Instead, the dragon's neck arched. It tilted its head upward and blasted flame like the sun. The great root caught the brunt of that fiery burst, but it wasn't consumed. Rather, the black, frosty spots vanished like breath-fog on glass. The root rang like a bell and then sent forth new tendrils, branching to cover the ground and the walls.

Had the folk inside not been lively, they would soon have wound up enmeshed in strong, silver fibers. Magick filled up the place, wild and unfettered with sigils or words. Old things were broken and recast. Old gods and their laws passed away, but a void is not tolerated. New gods arose, rising from the battle above with strange shapes and realigned powers. Fresh bindings were placed on ancient horrors, locking them away in darkness and cold. New constellations and ley-lines were forged, for the world above had changed beyond recognition.

Perhaps a few sheltered enclaves of folk were protected by ghost-warded walls. Possibly some had a witch or an order of paladins to shield them. Perhaps they emerged, blinking, into a Midworld fresh and unscarred… but that tale is not this one. This one lies back in the cavern, and out in a far other realm.

There, Gawain's body had vanished. Only a handful of shimmering dust was contained in his clothing; but then armour, helmet and sword reappeared, shrunken enough to fit Britte.

At first, she would not touch her dead master's harness and weaponry. Not until Drehn had three times spoken aloud the hundred-letter thunder word, attempting and failing to summon the Lord of Battle and Flame, did she take up the fallen one's arms.

She was not Gawain, but they gravitated to her, anyhow, this elf and halfling… these orcs and shape-changer and partly-cured werewolf. Only through her had they any more business together, and nobody wanted to separate. Not with gods-know-what waiting above.

Over the sounds of a messily feeding dragon and fast-branching root system, the group held conference. In the World Tree's rekindled light they met together, deciding what to do next. God-granted wishes were out of the question, needless to say.

"Be careful with your spells," Frodle warned them all. "This magick is new, and it hasn't been broken to harness. What you intend, and what you might _get_, could be tragically different."

"If we had a body," remarked Drehn, still thinking of Gawain, "we could try resurrecting that worthless blight of a paladin."

His mocking words sounded harsh, but no one mistook the drow's strange form of mourning. Not even Glud, who'd slashed his own chest and arms for a permanent funeral mark.

"I don't believe it would work, Sir Elf," Britte told him, forcing herself to sound steady. "He's… he did something. Repaid a debt of some sort for one who will not ever know what he's done. I'm not sure how I know this, but believe me, it's so."

Frodle leaned on his staff and rubbed at his round, beardless chin. The sounds of feeding and flame-belch had quieted, somewhat, which might not have been a good sign. Difficult to say, through the silvery forest of tendrils draping the mouth of their bolt-tunnel.

"Gone, then, but not yet quite dead," the scholar decided, adding, "It is clear that you are meant to carry on in his stead, Friend Britte. If you decide to do so, you can count on my help and advice at need."

The others stepped up, as well. All but Drehn, for the drow needed time and space to grieve. He no more shared sorrow than happiness, and would promise her nothing.

Had he been able, Drehn would have summoned the Lord of Battle and Flame just to curse him to his fiery face and die… but the old gods were vanished away like the terrors of night. There was nothing left but unshaped future ahead of him, and Drehn wanted none of it. Maybe he didn't belong, anymore.

XXX

_Elsewhere, far underground-_

Brilliant plasma struck its targeted magma plume, which all at once thundered, rang and flared. Like lightning through a long metal rod, this sun-like force was conducted straight to the Earth's core.

Webs of electromagnetic force sprang up, creating new, stronger compass points and a freshened shield. The core's spin rate increased suddenly, as that giant ball of super-pressurized nickel and iron woke like a recharged dynamo. WSA and Spectrum knew it first, and later what remained of the Cell. All anyone else knew just then was that horrible storms where brewing.

The sudden wild weather gave Lucinda Tracy's pilot fits, but he managed a safe landing, anyhow. The Lear jet touched down amid weirdly-white, crackling skies and gusting winds, finding shelter in the airport's main hangar soon afterward.

A less driven woman might have remained at the airport hotel until the trouble died down, but Lucy would not be swayed from her course. Using charm and great sums of money, she succeeded in finding a driver willing to take her to Madre de Dios. Not even claiming her luggage, she first called home and then set off to find Gordon and TinTin, bringing Ricky's bear along in her big, overstuffed purse.

The weather was horrid. Street signs rattled. Stoplights twisted and bobbed in the powerful gale, blown nearly sideways. The car that she rode in was batted about like a cat's-toy, kept from disaster by the driver's great skill. Outside the hospital, a flag pole rang and hummed in the wind, playing a chord that Lucy unconsciously tapped with her fingers.

In most cities, such a tempest would have brought rain, but this one was dry as a corpse. All that clawed and tore at Lucy's face when she darted from the car was dust. Holding her breath, she lowered her head and ran for the hospital's brightly-lit entrance. Her stolen child was within, and she would not rest till she'd touched him and seen for herself that Gordon was safe and well.

The hospital's administrator had been warned to expect Mrs. Tracy. He seemed like a very nice man, but Lucy had a hard time focusing on his words and compliments when part of her heart lay upstairs in a bed. Also, she spoke Spanish about as well as Senor Valdez spoke English, which was haltingly.

"Por favor… please," she at last told the smiling old man, "I'd just like to see my son. Could you take me to Gordon, please?"

"Si, of course. Many pardons, Senora. Come this way."

So saying, he led her to a special staff elevator. The ride was hummingly smooth, suffused with polished brass and music at least five years out of date. No matter, at the end of it all she reached Gordon's hospital room. But if Lucy expected a pale, weary invalid, she was in for a cold-water shock. Not only was Gordon not in bed, he was standing, locked in a passionate embrace with TinTin.

"Oh!" Lucy blurted, reddening. "Sweetie, it's me, but… but if this is a bad time…"

Gordon and TinTin leapt apart like a pair of startled cats. Mr. Valdez cleared his throat meaningfully, muttered something about business elsewhere and then left, shutting the door behind him.

For some reason, Lucy had fished Mr. Bear from her purse on the way up. Rather than offer the worn, sagging toy, though, she hugged it close.

"Mom!" said Gordon, looking a little confused. "TinTin says I've been up and talking for over a day, but the last thing I remember is landing in this monster storm, and then running to the airstrip instrument shed."

He came forward to give her a hug and to kiss Lucy's cheek. Relaxing, she placed a hand on either side of her son's handsome face and looked into his bright hazel eyes.

"You're all right, Sweetie? We heard that you'd been kidnapped, like Virgil was. Then the hospital rang to say that you were near death, and I… we've all been so worried, Gordon!"

He smiled at her in that familiar _'Oh, mom!'_ kind of way. Like he'd jumped off a backyard swing at full flight, or darted across the bull's paddock with red rags in both hands, back in Kansas.

"I'm okay, Mom. In fact, better than okay."

Turning away from her, briefly, Gordon reached a hand out to TinTin, who blushed hot as a storm-rattled stoplight. With a swift, gulping breath, she came forward to take Gordon's hand. Outside, all was hissing, gusting and howling. Inside, Gordon said,

"Mom, I love TinTin. Always have done and always will, as long as there's breath in my body. Maybe longer than that. So, I've asked her to marry me, and she's said…?"

His voice trailed off on a hopeful and questioning note. They'd had a private understanding, or course, but he hadn't yet talked to Kyrano, or Jeff.

For her own part, TinTin was caught in a whirl of emotions. She'd gone to bed the night before, leaving a stranger in Gordon's healed body. Now, the man that she loved had returned, knowing nothing at all of his own dreadful injuries. Nothing at all of his 'visitor'.

Confused but happy, all she could do was to nod and say,

"Yes."


	85. 85: Epilogue

Thanks, guys! It's been fun. =)

**85: Epilogue**

Time passed. The sun and moon followed each other across the broad skies. Tides churned and receded in unceasing order, while the world ground steadily onward through space.

There were new magnetic poles after that last, desperate Core Mission; slightly shifted, but stronger than before. A few changes had to be made to the satellite GPS system and Tracy Island's private guidance network… John and Brains were extremely busy for awhile… but people swiftly adapted. Certain birds and migratory animals had it rougher, milling about in confusion when they arrived at the wrong nesting and calving sites, but they, too, settled down. Life is resilient.

…And so is malice. Gardens have serpents, apples have worms, and the Cell's core triumvirate lived on. Directionless as the terns and whales, at first, they soon joined forces with Red Path (a toxic enough organization without being spiked by the Hood's foul leavings). And there would be plenty of trouble to come.

XXX

_Tracy Island-_

Virgil awoke on Tuesday, exactly one year from the day that he first succumbed to the Cell. In all of that time he'd been nourished and maintained by machines; his muscles micro-electrically stimulated to keep them from atrophy.

Not that he knew this, at first. In _his_ mind, he'd gone in a heartbeat from Thunderbird 1 to a hospital bed in his own room, back home. Only with beeping machinery, service mechs and life-support monitor screens all around him.

Okay… not a short nap, then. Question was (and Virgil stiffened with concern as the memories came flooding back) what had he done while not in control of himself? What harm had he caused?

None of the family was present to ask, at the moment, but as Virgil looked around himself, he saw evidence of many visits. Not just flowers, but snapshots and souvenirs of all that he'd missed.

Someone had placed a trio of wedding pictures on the nightstand next to his bed. Peering closer, Virgil saw John and that doctor of his… Gordon and TinTin… even _Brains,_ of all people, smiling at the camera with a small, brunette woman he didn't recognize.

Taped to the wall was a rainbow of crayoned coloring pages, in two different childish scrawls. A poster, too, of Alan in full racing gear, standing beside a bright-red car plastered with decals and adverts.

_"Next time, the Daytona 500!"_ someone had written across it in bold, black marker. Alan himself, most likely, to judge by the misshapen "D".

Classical piano music whispered through the air, each piece played in his mother's elegant, fiery style. From time to time the music would cease, as recorded voice updates told of family triumphs and happenings. Scott and dad, mostly, though Ricky had plenty to say about someone named "Janey".

Then there was Mr. Bear, perched on a seat at Virgil's bedside. Bought new for Scott by Granddad, that bear had been to cub-scout lock-ins and summertime visits to both sets of grandparents; gone to France (by accident) and been mailed to the South Pole (with a camera) by John. Now he was here, watching over God knows how long of a sleep.

Smiling a little, Virgil braced both hands upon the bed's metal rails and then levered himself into a sitting position. Sort of. More or less. Worked better when he just pressed the bed's head-raising feature, but you couldn't be expected to remember everything, first time out of a coma.

As soon as he changed its setting, the bed uttered a cheery sort of _'beep'_, and then sounded alerts all over the house. Minutes later, Virgil heard rushing footsteps and loud, hopeful voices. Then the bedroom door opened wide and life came flooding inside, in all of its messy and chaotic splendor.


End file.
